WarCraft: War of the Ruins
by OmegaTrooper
Summary: In the aftermath of Third War, the Scourge presses ever south, threatining the last of the Alliance. A Blood Elf and his sinister plan may yet turn the tides, but at what cost? Azeroth will now face some of the greatest trials of all time.
1. Prolouge: Road to KirinTor

Prologue:

Grand Marshal Anduin Praeton surveyed the lands lying below the valley quickly.

"Send them in" he quietly ordered to a shadowy figure standing behind him in the brush.

To the rear of him, a slight rustle came from the forest in which an army awaited. Suddenly, a thin, long line of cavalry bound knights, plate armor gleaming in the dim sun, charged forward. They quickly thundered down the hillside, leaving a storm of dust in their wake. At the angle that Anduin was ordering the advancement of the army, the charge looked like a line of silver-grey streaking onwards against a brown dirt ground to an all too familiar sight. The blight lay before them. The rotting, decayed soil was the mark of the Undead Scourge which was found at their settlements, or conquered lands.

This was the land of Lordaeron, just south of the Altrec Mountain Range. Lordaeron had once been one of the greatest bastions of human might in the world of Azeroth. Now...it was a plague infested realm of sorrow, ruled by the Undead which had come out of the icy lands of Northrend. Lordaeron had been able to stand on it's on for a while, at the time of the First Plague. But then, Arthas, Crown Prince of Lordaeron had murdered his own father, delivering the lands of light to the hands of death.

"I'll be damned if I see these people consumed by the Scourge" Anduin said in a whisper to himself. Spying the column of knights, so valiantly riding into the face of the enemy, he suddenly noticed that in front of the Necropolis (the Undead's spirit center) a company of ghouls, and abominations forming. It was not long before the first of the vile creatures were pierced by the long lances of the knights, whom would spear head an escape route for the survivors he had picked up on his march south.

"Send forth the 1st and 4th Battalions. Send for my horse as well" Anduin then ordered.

As he mounted his white steed, another line of warriors, this time simple footmen appeared over the ridge.

"Chaaarge!" he screamed, swinging his elven blade forward. A massive battle cry arose as the footmen ran blindly to help the now overwhelmed knights.

Riding with them, he pushed his horse to its limits running wildly down the slope before confronting what resistance the Scourge was putting up. Swinging his rune-blade he quickly sliced through a zombie-like ghoul, ending its "afterlife". Around him was chaos. The battle raged yet, he could see the Men of the North had the momentum.

As soon as the battle had erupted, it came to a close. Hundreds of corpses lay around Anduin as he dismounted to meet his first lieutenant, Lord Banor.

"A sound victory milord. This will secure our passage to Dalaran, where we can at least find a day or twos reprieve." He spoke up, while taking off his bloodied helm.

"Yes, a victory" he said dryly. "Tell me, how long before we actually reach the ruins of the Violet Citadel?"

"Not another two night's milord" the Banor replied with hope in his voice.

"Get the men moving then. There shall be no stops for us except for sleep until we get to the Alliance forces to the south. Let us thank the Light that Stormwind was able to get soldiers and supplies as far north as Dalaran. If it were not for King Wrynn, I honestly believe the Alliance would have fallen apart by now. He though, again to thank the Light, was able to take up the cup of Lord Terenas' position"

"Yes lord. The men shall not stop until we have reached Base Camp. A shame isn't it?" Lieutenant Banor then said suddenly with such sadness in his voice.

"What?" Anduin said looking up.

"That we came so close to retaking the capital under the glorious banner of our nation. Until that damned witch Sylvanis betrayed out pact and killed so many more humans than needed to die including Garithos. I never liked the man; always prejudiced against the other members of the Alliance, yet a brilliant tactician."

"Yes, yet we must press on. Sylvanis is a cunning foe. She showed that in her defense of Silvermoon before that basterd Arthas broke through. Several times it almost looked as if she would beat him. Alas, it is no more and we should not dwell on it"

And so the ragged last remnants of the Royal Army of Lordaeron made their way quietly to the devastated city of Dalaran. Though a shadow of its former self, the sight of Dalaran was a shock of hope in the men. Almost immediately he saw a change in the men's moral. The retaken city had become the base of operations for Alliance forces and a focal point for trade between the remaining northern kingdoms of Stromgarde, Gilneas, and Kul-Tiras.

As Anduin Praeton arrived in a tent designated to the High Commander of Alliance forces (the title was new on him) he took off his plate armor. Slowly setting his helm on the oak desk in front of him, he finally realized he was not alone in the tent. A lone figure sat dark in a corner of the room.

"Greetings Lord Praeton. _Andu falas_!" the figure spoke. The man flicked up his hand and spoke a word softly. A spark of green flame appeared above his hand. The green flame created just enough light to reveal a pointy eared elf that bore glistening blood red armor. The armor, which had many runes inscribed in it also held a sheathed elvish sword. The long blond hair of the elf ran down to his shoulders and his eyes ,emerald green, held a strange look about them. His eyebrows, as always elf's were, were long and pointed.

"Who are you and what is your business in Dalaran?" Anduin spoke quickly.

"I, am Faltron'Quel, leader of the Blood Elves in the Altrec Range, and related to the Sunstrider Dynasty. As you know, Prince Kael'thas commands another group of my brethren. Where he has ran to with so many warriors, I do not know. His last sighting was in Northrend several months ago" the Elf replied in a straight tone.

"What has this to do with your coming to me?"

"You see, I am one of the few Elf's who escaped Quel'thalas alive after the Scourge destroyed out beloved kingdom. The war is slowly yet surely being lost. Look to your borders. You have lost all of the gains made after the Legion's banishment. The Undead have endlessly trailed you and now this band of 10,000 men is all that is left. Azeroth cannot support you forever. They themselves are assailed by Orcs, Trolls and other vile creatures. Yes, the colony of Theramoore is at peace, yet for how long? The gnomes have lost their homeland, thus losing their power and the Dwarf's are dangerously weak at the moment and have retreated back to thier tunnels again. The remaining nations you look to are also being worn down by the attrition of the Dead and Quel'thalas has been obliterated" the Elf continued, a now sad look in his eyes and tone. "And now rumors of Arthas commanding _all _Scorge forces is even more disturbing"

"What exactly are you stating, sir?"

"I have devised a plan, to turn the tides of war, and forever end the Scourge. I intend to tilt the balance of the scale to our side, and it can only be done _my_ way. All I need now, is a simple...pact" slowly, Anduin turned to him and nodded.


	2. Chapter 1: Legacy of the Blood Elves

Chapter 1: Legacy of the Blood Elves

"Set sail immediately" Alaric'Quel demanded. His Blood Elf forces had made their way across the ruined landscape of Lordaeron and arrived at Kul'Tiras, Kingdom of the Sea, without much resistance from the Undead or still lingering Burning Legion demons. The Elves had receded from the Alliance of Lordaeron almost straight after the Second War with the Orc Horde. Quel'thalas was the High-Elves eternal capital, a standing monument of their achievements. Alaric still remembered the lush, green forests and the wondrous city of Silvermoon, intergrown with the woods themselves. Alas, it was no more. Arthas, now the Lich King had marched into Quel'thalas and turned it into a barren wasteland and he did the neighboring human kingdom. In doing so, he had killed every Elf inside the Kingdom before leaving it to rot leaving only a few scattered High-Elves outside to survive. In honor of their fallen people, the remaining members of High-Elven society had renamed themselves Blood Elves and pledged to fight wherever the Scourge might be.

"Yes Lord Alaric!" an Elf replied. He quickly set about handing out the orders that Alaric had issued. The Blood Elves had rejoined the Alliance after the fall of Silvermoon and still fought the failing war. In reaching Kul'Tiras, Alaric'Quel received several of the finest ships, courtesy of Anduin Praeton, to carry out his plans.

"Milord, how goes the setting of the fleet?" Alaric's First Lieutenant, Eolas queried.

"Ah, fine my good friend" he replied. The two had known each other for years, perhaps centuries as Elves are almost completely immortal in age. "Yet, if only I knew where Prince Kael'thas is right now. Kael has too many of our people in his hands. Even now, he commands the majority of them, and yet we have no clue where he is. Anyway, how goes the condition with the men?" the tall, long elf then asked.

"Well sir, no one is out of line yet. We all hunger for magic once again, yet without the Sunwell, there is no way to feed our addiction" Eolas said solemnly. Alaric could see on Eolas's face that he too shared the pain of the radical magic addiction. After the Sunwell was destroyed, the Elf's had no source of magic to feed upon, losing much mana. Perhaps Kael'thas had left in order to find more mana. Bah, he would probably never know.

"Don't worry Eolas, my friend. Soon, you and our brethren will have all the mana you ever dreamed of, and the Scourge will be no more"

"Sir, the entire fleet has set sail and is awaiting your orders!" a younger looking Elf exclaimed, running up to Alaric.

"Good, now set the bearings to the first marker I set on the map" he pointed to a map of Azeroth which included the continents of Lordearon, Azeroth, Kalimdor, and Northrend.

Quietly, Eolas scuttled closer to Alaric.

"What is your plan sire? You have shared it with none, and now that we are underway, I believe you could at least tell you Lieutenants" he stated.

"Yes, I suppose you are correct. Well, let's just say that my plan involves various magical powers, that when capped with a prime focal magic, will cleanse the Scourge, and give us an unlimited supply of mana forever. I will say this; We set sail for Kalimdor, and for Ashenvale Forest" Alaric replied in a low whisper.

"This is news indeed! How have you come across these items? What are they?"

"Some are artifacts. Others...lets just say that the one I want most, belongs to the Night Elves, and their pet dragons, or at least what's left of it" again he whispered. He then looked over at the humans pulling that had come along in his expedition tugging on sail ropes. Eolas got the hint and stealthily left the deck of the ship.

Alaric looked across the ever stretching blue sea. It would be a long journey, but in the end it would be worth it. Behind his ship, a white trail of foam followed, along with that of dozens of ships. Suddenly, a pang of wanting for magic exploded in his skull. He kept quiet, and retired below decks.

From below he quietly pulled out a piece of parchment. On it was a map of the world. To the west lay Kalimdor, and to the east, Lordaeron and Azeroth. In front of him and his flotilla, lay the maelstrom. A huge, eternal storm that never ceased its spiral.

And so the fleet went west. It strayed across the edges of the maelstrom, losing a ship which greatly angered Alaric. These ships were full of the last of his dying kind. Finnaly, the rain stopped and the ships made it through the storm. A long, and rigorous month passed as the weather got hotter, dryer, and finally, the cry echoed among the fleet.

"Land ahead! We have spotted land!"

The fleet slowly approached the distant land. They had finnaly arrived at Kalimdor. As they closed in, Alaric could vaugely make out a settlement. It seemed human enough. In the distance, he viewed the island citadel of Theramore.


	3. Chapter 2: The Last Citadel of Lordaeron...

Chapter 2: The Last Citadel of Lordaeron and Plans Unveiled

The breezes brought a distinct smell of the sea and fish, in the direction of the fleet. The deep blue waters shimmered and swayed. White puffy clouds rolled overhead, occasionally blocking out the sun providing a much needed shade. And in the not-so-distant sight of the crows nest on the ships, lay an island. The island, looking like it was made out of harsh desert lands harbored something not naturally formed. On it, was the city-colony of Theramore. The distinctly human architecture raised out of the sands as the Blood Elf fleet ever neared it. Alaric himself was relived that they had taken the correct route, and was not thrown off by the storm. He was also impressed at the size of the city itself. Theramore had existed for but a year or two, and its size was (not huge, like Stormwind, yet large as in the sense of it standing for only that amount of time) quiet impressive. At the fore of the city was a great rock face, probably fifty feet in height. In several places, the cliffs stooped down to small, rocky beaches. Behind the granite, sand, and limestone cliffs were houses made out of strange new woods with their green tiled roofs, shops, merchant stands, and docks stood together within a walls of chipped gray stone. What topped it off though, was the huge tower in the very center of the city.

Nearing the city, Alaric ordered his flagship to take position in the front of the flotilla. He spotted an entrance among the high cliffs. The alcove lead from one of the small beaches into the city itself, looking to be the only actual entrance from the sea to Theramore. From the opening to the city (which lay only a few dozen feet from each other) lay great arches of white marble as if to welcome any comers to the city. From there, an artificial 'river' led into the near center of the city to the docks.

The people of Theramore were denizens of several human nations, most of which came from Lordaeron. These people departed from Lordaeron _before _the Burning Legion's invasion. They were led by Jaina Proudmoore, a sorceress of the former Kirin Tor claiming that a 'prophet' or an 'oracle' had warned her of the invasion beforehand. Alaric couldn't really remember, or care for that matter. All that did matter to him, was that it was here so he would set up his base of operations.

As the first three ships of the fleet broke off and started down the 'river' crowds of humans flocked to the railings to see them. Alaric did not get the welcome of cheering and thanking he had wished. Instead, the people were resolute, stiff necked and cold eyed, looking at them with stony faces. Was it because they were Elves? It didn't truly matter so long as they were willing enough to work under him. The envoy ships of the fleet progressed through the 'river' passing under several more arches, before great stone statues replaced them. He recognized several of them such as the ones of Lords Turalyon, Terenas, Daelin Proudmoore (Jaina Proudmoore's father) and Lothar

"These people are amazing. They have been here but two years and they have built a city almost architecturally great as-"Alaric's voice was cut off.

"Sir, the docks lay just ahead. Shall we ready the troops?" one of his captains asked walking up to him.

"No. At first, let us act peacefully. We did die and bleed together with these humans in the Second War. Let us see if they are willing to work with us first. If not, then the hand of fate must be forced" he replied coolly pacing the wooden deck.

The three Blood Elf ships slowly halted and came upon the docks, where many other vessels lay in wait. Docking without permission on empty docks, Alaric and most of the crew of the ships departed on wooden planks to the piers that stuck out of the mainland.

All around, the city loomed. Its many buildings were stone and white washed, giving Theramore a brilliant radiance in the strong sun. In between different sections of building were trees, grasses, and plants he recognized from Lordaeron and Quel'thalas. It looked like the Theramorians tried to bring as much with them as they could.

As soon as he walked onto the pier, he and his captains were greeted by guards, claiming to be either Theramore guard, or strangely, Kul-Tiras marines.

"And who you be Elf?" one of them, probably the leader spoke up.

"I, am Alaric'Quel, Lord of the Blood Elves. I have led a fleet across the sea for the past few months. My soldiers and I are tired and wish to rest for a while"

"Anybody's welcome 'ere in Theramore. But first; what's your business here on the far side of the world...Blood Elf?"

"My business is my own. I wish to speak with Lady Proudmoore at once if you please" he then replied.

"No sir, you can't speak with the Lady-"the human ceased his talk immediately. "Hail, Lady Proudmoore. What brings you to the docks?" he then said, directing his attention to a young woman that was walking down a flight of white-washed stairs.

The woman, Jaina, lifted the hood on her robe to reveal a delicate face. "Why, to welcome our guests of course" she said. "You may return to your daily patrol captain. I don't believe these Elves will do much harm" The soldier bowed and led his group back to marching up and down the cobble stone streets. "You must forgive the people here sir. Since my father tried to wage yet another war on the Orcs on the mainland, the people are very wary of outsiders" Jaina spoke in a clear, strong voice.

"No need to forgive Lady. These are dark times. I could explain things better to you if we left the premises for a more private location" he replied a bit confused over the part of Admiral Proudmoore's invasion of the orcs.

Mrs. Proudmoore lead Alaric and his captains to the large tower, which she named 'Theramore Citadel'. Inside, they entered a large marble tiled room with a ceder table in the center. As they sat down, Jaina spoke up once again.

"So, Lord Alaric, what brings you to Theramore?"

"My men and I have traveled long and far. We are searching for several artifacts which shall enable us to provide a cure for the radical magic withdrawal from which we suffer" Alaric didn't say anything more of his plan to destroy the Scourge, or even of which artifacts he intended to collect.

"Well, you are certainly welcome to stay in Theramore as long as you wish" the Sorceress said.

"Thank you milady. Now, would you please explain what you meant by your father invading the orcs?" he asked inquisitively.

"Ah, well-"She hesitated for a moment. Her eyes looked deep in though and sorrow "After we had set up on Theramore, we made peace with the orcs. My father led fleet from Kul Tiras looking for survivors from the Legions invasion. He found us here, at peace with the Orcs. My father was a proud man, a man of honor, and he could not be suaded to see that we were at peace with the Orcs. He took over the city, and plunged us into a war. I cannot let that happen again, so I must disarm all of your forces trying to enter the city-just in case" she added a wink at Alaric.

After that, a small dinner was offered, in which they ate with a ravenous liking from being at sea for nearly three months.

A while passed of polite talking and stories told. Alaric asked as many questions about the geography of Kalimdor and of the Night Elves and their strategies, tactics, and even their known dwellings. Surely, if he was to run rampant through Ashenvale Forest, the Night Elves would try to interfere.

Afterwards, Jaina offered lodgings for as many of his men as she could find space for.

Finally when Alaric had left the Citadel, he came upon his quarters. A just room in a building next to the Citadel itself. Upon arriving, he had found that his Captains were already inside, with a map rolled out on the table. The map showed a rough sketch of the east coast of Kalimdor.

"Lord Alaric, I believe now would be a prime time to tell us of your plans" Eolas, First Captain spoke up.

"Yes, yes. For many years I have planned this. The fleet will land here at Saltmarsh Plains, but ten miles from Mulgore-"he was cut off by one his subordinates.

"Milord, that area is home to Durotar, the Orc nation! We simply cannot land there without a fight!"

Alaric smirked at the comment. "Of course not fool! The Orcs will be upon us before we even try to land on the beaches. We are going to thrust our way through them. We shall break the back of their..."Alaric searched his minds for the right words "...vaunted farce country. I shall not let those brutes stop me, for surely if we let them alone, they shall attack us from the rear as is such the way of the greenskin filth"

"Sir, why not sail up to the port of Nendis? Would that not be a good location to start out in?" another Captain suggested.

"No, it is to far north and too populated with Night Elves. The know their land better than we do, and once we enter Ashenvale, it will be quicker to get to Mount Hyjal from the Southern Pass"

"Mount Hyjal? Milord, we have followed you thus far without knowing what we are even doing. All we have gotten out of you is the same answer for two years; that we are going to cure ourselves and destroy the Scourge. Sire, what power lies in Mount Hyjal that will help us do so? The World Tree is gone. Blasted to oblivion. What is there now that will help us do such a deed?" Eolas said.

"Yes, upon Mt. Hyjal, the ashes of the World Tree lie. Upon that mountain we shall find salvation, for beneath the ruins of the World Tree, lies an ancient lake of mystical waters from which it sprouted. I intend to take the last waters of the Well of Eternity to power our race. With such power, we shall TEAR Northrend apart! We shall watch Arthas and his vaunted Lich King shredded to pieces with such powers!" Alaric had lost control of his temper. He had obtained such a hatred for Arthas and the Lich King, that some of his Captains (he had heard them remark in the shadows) believed that he was even losing his mind. Though none of the men had ever seen him this way till now. His usually pleasant fair face had turned red, his emerald eyes filled with an infinite rage and his crimson gloved hand banged on the table.

"Lord...wouldn't such powers attract the Burning Legion again?" one of the Captains spoke up after a while of silence.

"Nay, for I have found a way to protect the vials of power from which we shall transport the Waters. Do not be frightened men! I anger at the loss of eternal Quel'thalas and Silvermoon. Nothing shall stop us from retaking out lands, and putting an end to the Undead once and for all. When the other races see our power, they shall flock to us, and help us defeat what is left of the Scourge, for our powers alone shall not be enough to obliterate them. Imagine! An grand army of orcs, humans, night elves, gnomes, dwarves, trolls, naga, and all the other denizens of Azeroth uniting in arms to defeat our common foe. It shall be done!" Alaric ended.

His Captains were in such dismay of the show of power and though he had put into this, that they all took involuntary steps back and bowed.

"Milord, Alaric'Quel, of the Sunstrider Dynasty, we shall follow you till the ending of the world if such is your plan. Let us ride out to war!" Eolas replied passionately to Alaric's speech.

"For honor! For valor!" cried out the Captains whom were so moved by the speech.

"Thank you. Now I truly know that my men are willing to follow me to their deaths. If such is their fate, then let me go with them. But until that day, let us go on in victory. Make sure the men get sleep tonight. They will need it for tomorrow. Already Ms. Proudmoore has proved she will have nothing in our plans and I will not allow her to get in my way" Tomorrow, we shall dispose of the weak leadership on this island. By evening tomorrow, it will have a new leader, and we shall have a base camp for the campaign. Sleep well now men, for tomorrow, we begin ride to war"


	4. Chapter 3: Coup in Theramore

Chapter 3: Coup in Theramore

½ league offshore from Theramore Isle, September 15th

Early morning had dawned. The sun silently rose in the east lighting the geography of Kalimdor. To the seas already, ships were setting sail for their daily fishing routes or for trade. Slowly, people began to fill the wide streets of Theramore yet the greater whole were still in bed at this early hour. Alaric himself though, had had no sleep. He stayed awake, and had stealthily left the city at midnight. He planned to return soon.

The previous night, a special team of Elven craftsman had been reducing the Island's defenses, mostly the deadly imported Dwarven cannon batteries. The time was ripe for the taking of Theramore as the city lay sleepy, and its leaders ignorant to the greater plan. Alaric judged it that he himself would lead his men into the heart of the city. Would he not bleed with them? He was their leader, and they had followed him thus far. Slipping on silvery mail, he then prepped the rest of his armor. It took a while to fit his blood red plate armor, yet he did so anyway. Next Alaric donned a jet black cape that rose up to his over-insinuated shoulder pieces. The cape was weaved with anti-magic spells to protect him from any of the foolish human wizards the Sorceress had brought with her.

"Milord, it is time" Eolas stated walking into Alaric's quarters.

"Yes, it is. Now as in the elder poems we have come from battle to a land of salvation to battle again.

_From the ancient lands we came_

_From war and bloodshed we were shame_

_To the new land of destiny, we set the new flame_

_Now to war we set again!"_ Alaric sadly sung the ancient tune of his people's heritage and the First Exodus from across the ocean. So long ago was that. Not even he was alive to remember that time of despair. Yet hope still flickered for the long lost High-Borne, for they sailed on to the lands of Quel'thalas. Now, it was his time to take action, and salvage what was left of the world. "Are all the men accounted for Captain Eolas?"

"Yes my old friend. We are ready and eager to set battle once again. We shall avenge our peoples! We are ready to be led into the very fires of the Nether milord!"

"Good. And to victory we shall lead our people Eolas. Only, what we do after, I do not know"

"We can rebuild Silvermoon. Once again, you can see our beloved city, like a phoenix rising from the ashes! Bring new justice to the world and un-plague our forests. Much work is to be done afterwards lord"

"Yes. You lift great grief from my heart friend. Now, let us focus on the task at hand for the iron is hot, and this is but the first step of the way!"

So said, the Blood Elf fleet approached Theramore with sickening anxiety to both the humans, and elven alike. The first line of ships passed up the 'river' bombarding all that gave resistance in their way. Even though many cannon had been dismantled or spiked, many yet still answered the call of the Elven fleet. The rest of the fleet anchored to the north of the city and disembarked all forces from within their hulls.

Alaric watched as hundreds of red and silver clad troops formed ranks in the hot desert sun. The elves never were they type to love war, yet since the end of the Legions invasion, they were a transformed people. To bolster the Elf forces, large contingents of human and dwarven troops also accompanied him; another part of the pact with Marshal Praeton

The soldiers banged pikes and the hilts of their blades upon their shields in anticipation of battle. By now of course, the Theramorians had to have been warned of the attack. But Alaric did not intend to give them a chance to mobilize. The horns rung the forward tune and the columns began the march to Theramore. The city lay but a half mile away so all could see the smoke rising from it already.

To his surprise, several regiments of troops still entrenched at the edges of the city. He believed that all would be sent to fight the decoy soldiers that were now spilling into the docks. From the front, he now held up his sword. The world seemed to slow. The blade in his arm fell, and he let forth a shrill battle cry. "FOR LORDAERON! FOR QUEL'THALAS!"

From beneath his helm, he could barely see, but all he needed to was the target in front of him. The human and Eternity Campaign soldier lines clashed in a whirlwind of fury and gore. It was strange though, having peoples whom were supposed to be allies tearing one another apart. Yet the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few as the Elven princeling believed. Alaric swung his blade down on a soldier between his helm and shoulder piece. The return answer was a fountain of blood that shot up into the air. Again and again, he attacked in a ferocious blood lust, the kind of which reminded him of the Orc's of the Second War. He relished the chance at having to combat them once again. "But first I have to get through these feeble humans" he thought. More than twenty minutes it took push the human line back. And after that, they barricaded themselves within houses and civilian buildings. Round street corners and back alleys musket men and arrows flew at the Elf ranks surprising them. It was a bloody urban battle that seemed to be pushing slowly towards the center of the city. Only by attrition of numbers were they doing so as well.

But at one point of a pitched battle with footmen, Alaric noticed that the battle was now won. The men he was fighting were some of the last, as the rest had given up. The Coup of Theramore was complete. The wounded would be back in the ranks within a week though due to the special magic's of the Elves. The battle had also lasted about an hour and a half before the Theramorians gave up the fight. Now with the city under control, he could bolster his forces again by adding the subjugated Theramorian units into his own combat ready battalions.

Alaric brought himself along with his Elite Guard to the Citadel at a little past noon looking admiringly at the tall tower before entering. Stepping up the many white-washed stairs annoyed Alaric. He would have preferred just to teleport to the chambers of Lady Proudmore, but the walls of the Citadel, as he was told, were protected like his cloak from magics. He grandly threw open the doors at the throne room and mockingly lay down his sword at Jaina Proudmoore's feet. The Lady had her face cupped in her hands, slowly shaking in disbelief.

"I placed trust in you Alaric of Elves. I gave you shelter, and I allowed you free grants in the city. This is how you repay us? How many hardships must these people endure?" she spoke in a bitter tone.

"As many as they need to milady. This is part of a grand plan though. You see, I need from this city several artifacts, and actually to stage the next offencive through the Barrens" he replied.

"The Barrens? Have you also come to fight the Orcs?"

"Oh don't be foolish!" he spattered "They are merely obstical in my plan and will be dealt with as they need to. Besides, if left alone, they shall prove an extremely dangerous piece. For you see, I am truly after Mount Hyjal"

"You seek the powers of the Nordrassil, the World Tree? It is gone, and will avail you nothing! Archimonde tried the same thing and was destroyed by nature herself" she snapped back.

"No milady. I am not after Nordrassil itself. Just what it lies upon"

"You are a sick fool" she then said.

"So be it Ms. Proudmoore. I have more important things to do than to be insulted by childish rabble. I do hope you shall see it my way after I claim the power and unveil my plans to all" and with that, Alaric' Quel left to prepare for the long trail through the Barrens, and to the ultimate prize.


	5. Chapter 4: The Second Alliance

Chapter 4: The Second Alliance

(Thanks to all those who have been patiently waiting for this chapter and giving me hints about certain names of things and places and correcting my mistakes. With school kicking back into gear and all the homework and projects, it'll probably take me a week or two to write up these chapters. But soon, the story is going to start kicking up and war will rage across the world for a fourth time. Also: Special thanks to Dr. Yereshi for pointing out the Magni Bronzebeard thing. My bad ï. Also, I revamped the status of the Alliance on the bottom of the screen because I know it was hard to read before)

Stormwind, Azeroth; Early Autumn

The sun was setting like a blood red disc in the sky. It's last rays lit the swift plains and lakes, mountains and valleys. On the horizon lay the enormous Gates of Stormwind. Behind it lay the city itself in all its majesty and august. Just the sight of the city itself inspired awe and wonder. From afar, it looked as if the Keep was covered in jewels, and its roof was golden. The noble and proud houses, shops, merchant stands, and other civilian buildings stood resolute. This city had suffered the wrath of the Orcs during both the First and Second Wars, and had produced some of the greatest heroes of Humanity ever. Even with their King killed, its population continued the war. The people themselves were stiff necked, strong, and rugged from the two Orcish wars. The city and kingdom had fallen in the First War, and nearly a third of the country had fled across the Great Sea to Lordaeron. There they continued the fight against the Horde and helped draft the Pact of Alliance which in turn created the multi-nation coalition to fight against all enemies. After years of fighting the Orcs, they Alliance had pushed them south back into shattered kingdom of Azeroth. For more months the war continued, but eventually the Alliance had prevailed and the people of Stormwind began the grueling task of reconstruction. Now though, it has been nigh two decades since the end of the Second War, and Azeroth once again stands as the bastion of Human might in the world.

"So you gave nearly a sixth of your standing force to a rouge elf?" King Varian Wrynn inquired. He had been king for now twenty years of Azeroth, and taken up the cup of the late King Terenas. Of all the outrages he had heard lately, this one angered him the most.

"Milord, in the position I was at, I had no choice. The war is being lost by attrition. The sheer numbers of the Undead are what is wearing us down. We cannot defeat them by arms!" Marshal Anduin Praeton replied desperately. The commander had recently returned to Stormwind for a formal report on the forces in field.

"It is not your position to judge that Marshal. You shall return to the front and prepare for the next string of orders. Do I make myself clear? If ever you give even one of your men away without consulting an Alliance leader or me, I shall have you hung" Varian ended. The commander went pale, nodded and walked out of the throne room. Varian was smoldering in anger and frustration towards the general. He had not the men to waste on foolish crusades through Kalimdor, or whatever the man had implied the Blood Elf was to do. He had his own matters to attend to. The new branch of Undead forces under the Dark Ranger Sylvanis, the 'Forsaken' had retaken all gains made lately _and _somehow had allied themselves with the Horde and its friends. Even more disturbing, the forces at the gates of Gilneas could barely hold off the returning hordes of the Lich King's Undead lackeys.

Varian sighed. He remembered the harsh, hard days during the Second War when all seemed lost. Always there was hope for Light even when it seemed lost forever. The brothers and priests of Northshire Abbey had contained a huge influx of refugees fleeing from Lordaeron and were housing them well, yet with such cost that the supplies for them would soon run out.

Suddenly the throne doors opened and through the light a figure appeared walking towards him. Varian shook himself from his train of thought and looked up. "Magni Bronzebeard?! Ha! I knew you would come!" he cried, joy leaping into his heart.

"Hail King Wrynn! Good to seeya' to boyo! Bin' bout' couple of months eh, since the Invasion. Anyway, what you been planning here these past couple of months? Hear your bringing all the Alliance leaders together here for a little get together eh" the dwarf replied. Muradin was king of the dwarfs of Khaz Modan. Long had Khaz Modan served the Alliance and had become one of its most steadfast allies.

"Yes, they should be arriving this week, you're the first to arrive. We are facing dark times ahead of us and I believe that we must attend an emergency summit. For the first time since the Pact of Alliance, all the human, dwarf, and elf representatives will come together again. For to long has there been anarchy in the Alliance command structure. I will be the one to put it to order" Varian spoke.

"Aye, a bold plan. I'm not sure if much'll rouse the countries into being much of a help. You got'u remember that Gilneas and Stromgarde are surrounded by the Undead and Dalaran is in ruins" Magni Bronzebeard remarked.

And so the week passed quietly without much news from the North. The Orc attacks from the Blasted Lands were kicking up again, and no merchants or news had come from Foothold Citadel in Theramore. One by one, the representatives, ambassadors, and kings entered the Gates of Stormwind.

And so the Council had adjourned. Lords hailing from Stromgarde, Khaz Modan, Dalaran, Aeire Peak, Kul-Tiras, the remaining Blood Elf people, Gilneas, the Gnomes and the Occupied Territories of Altrac had met in the Great Hall. The Hall was located in the castle which the city of Stormwind was built around. The inside of the room was immense. Huge blue curtains hung down from the walls and on them was the emblazoned the Gold Lion of Azeroth. The round stage circled downwards to a single flat platform in the middle of the room where even more torches and energy lights were lit up.

"People of Lordaeron, and my fellow people of Azeroth. Today will mark another historic date which has followed in our bloody and sad history of late" King Wrynn started once all the members filed in. "Today, we must decide the fate of the Easter Kingdoms. I know many of you here do not align yourselves with the Alliance of Lordaeron at all, but let me speak and you will see the Light of reason"

"You would have us bow to the Alliance again? Havn't we already decreed our freedom from that despocratic institution before? Could we not just be simple allies instead of having to center our governments? Would you have us fight with them?" spoke up Yensir Greymane II of Gilneas son of King Greymane I ,pointing to the Kul-Tiras ambassador. (The two nations have had a long history of rivalry)

"Yes, I would have you all join the Alliance again. Listen to me! Have you no sense? Our enemies laugh at our weakness and division. We all know that we cannot continue to fight the way we have and win. It is fruitless. Yes, occasionally we win battles and then our slain warriors rise to fight us! Under the Second Articles of Alliance, which have been drafted here in Stormwind our pact will be ever more the stronger. We shall use the Deeprun Transport system to ferry troops and supplies to Lordaeron. Dalaran shall become a focal point and main base of command in the North. We shall revise the state of the military and navy, and push back the Forsaken and recapture the Capital in the north. Then we shall deal with the Horde as it ought to be dealt with. Plans for an expeditionary force have already been laid and prepared" the King of Stormwind spoke passionately looking around the room.

"The Ambassador of Kul-Tiras replies yay to the vote of new Alliance measures" spoke up a tall man with a graying head in the background of the crowded room.

"The regent Lord of Altrac replies yay to the vote of new Alliance measures" Dominic Valarin, temporary king of Altrac said as well. The man didn't really even have a choice. The territories of Altrac had been under occupation and then puppet rule ever since its betrayal in the Second War. And then, in the latest war, its former King, Lord Perenolde escaped his prison and rallied supporters in the city. The man had enough guile to surrender his soul and much of northern provinces to the Lich Kings uses in return for eternal life. Everybody hated that basterd for not one, but two betrayals of the most foul kind.

"Tell me, friend Wrynn. What reason can you give me that will make me give up my peoples freedom to a tyrannical rule? I supported the early days of the Alliance only because I was naïve, young, and saw a horde of a million orcs storming through my country side" King Trollbane of Stromgarde said.

"A horde of zombies and skeletons does not appease you Trollbane? Last I heard, your country side is now a toxic plague land" Varian replied with sharp accuracy.

"Point taken" was all that Trollbane could say in return.

"My comrades, under the new Alliance, we shall triumph. Already emissaries are on their way to open negotiations with the Night Elves (that remark drew some boos and hisses from the crowd. Those quickly subsided). Every nation and people willing, stand now and sign the Articles of Second Alliance"

The lords of Kul-Tiras, Dalaran, Khaz Modan, the Gnomes, the Blood Elves, and Aiere Peak immediately stood up and made their way down the ramps to the center circle where a table and piece of parchment lay. Slowly, the other lords looked around and after several more hours of debate stood. The Alliance of Azeroth had been formed. Unknown to the Lords of the East, a single Blood Elf and his plans, were about to change the course of history forever.

Status of the Alliance of Azeroth:

The Second Alliance was formed of that date. All troops and resources of the members had been committed to the cause. For the first time since the Second War, the Easter Kingdoms have united to form a single command structure. The Alliance of Lordaeron stated that all nations of Lordaeron are to unite to fight the common enemy, the orcs. The Alliance of Azeroth states the same things as the First Alliance, only that it is not centered on Lordaeron alone, but the entire known world of Azeroth. These are the statistics of the growing military arm of the Alliance. (I am using the same symbolism to portray the status of the Alliance as the narrorator did in the story "Warcraft: Tides of Darkness" by 'Jeremy')

_**Kingdom of Azeroth**_

The Kingdom of Azeroth is extremely committed to the Alliance and its strongest member at the moment. It has many troops already in Lordaeron fighting back the advance of the Scourge and Forsaken, but also must deal with the remains of the Horde still in Azeroth that constantly plague the eastern and southern portions of the Kingdom.

_**Kingdom of Stromgarde**_

This Kingdom has been badly ravaged by the Scourge and Burning Legion in the Third War. It's entire military might is engaged fighting on what precious pieces of land it still holds.

_**Kingdom of Gilneas**_

King Greymane II, like his father represents the isolation of Gilneas. Gilneas has commited several battalions, but of this moment, cannot do much because it too, like Stromgarde, is assailed by the Undead. These Kingdoms are quickly weakening and look not to survive much longer unless something is done quickly to prevent their downfall.

_**Kingdom of Kul-Tiras**_

Kul-Tiras has commited the largest and most versatile navy to the seas. They are ready to see the war through to the end. Yet, in doing so, they have not the large infantry and cavalry armies of Azeroth and Lordaeron in their golden days. It relies heavily on sea power and its elite Tirrassian Marine Guard.

_**Mageocracy of Dalaran**_

Dalaran was completely devastated in the Third War and is now merely a contested buffer zone between the Undead and Humanity. It still holds some remaining forces of its former Royal Army which are now forced into hiding in the mountains or in the ruins of the Violet Citadel. Most of its mages and knowledge were either destroyed, or fled after and during the Third War.

_**Occupied Stewardship of Altrec**_

Altrec has been an occupied area ever since its betrayal in the Second War. It owns little and has absolutely no wealth of its own. Its government, puppets of the Alliance of Lordaeron, are mostly fleeing the Occupied Territories because of its highly unsafe proximity to the Plaugelands which have almost engulfed it. Still, it sends its soldiers to battle the tyrannical forces of Dark.

_**Khaz Modan and Aiere Peak**_

Long have the stout Dwarves been friends of Humanity. In the Second War, the Alliance freed them from the Orcs and purged their lands clean of the chaotic Horde. The Dwarves swore eternal allegiance to the Alliance and will follow its leaders to whatever end. They are ready to see it through to the end, and are amassing troops and supplies to the new 1st Alliance Army which is merging in the ruins of Dalaran.

_**The Gnomish People**_

The Gnomes, whose homeland was completely pulverized at the same time the Second War was occurring, have been allowed to settle in Ironforge, the Dwarf capital. They have sent a few hundred well equipped "military-advisors" and amazing technologies to the front.

_**Blood Elf's of Quel'thalas**_

These few thousand remaining Blood Elves all come from a common heritage; Quel'thalas. Their beloved homeland was destroyed completely, their source of power (the Sunwell) consumed, and their people nearly annihilated. These warriors will stop at nothing to avenge the deaths of their people and culture.


	6. Chapter 5: Of Old Hatreds and Landfall

Chapter 5: Of Landfall and Old Hatreds

Eastern Coastline of the Barrens, Mid Autumn

"So this is Kalimdor?" Alaric'Quel whispered to himself in disappointment. "I thought it would be more verdant, as the Elders recited. Oh well, we must set base camp up"

He sought shade under a nearby strangely formed palm tree and looked back at the cove. The rocky coast harbored dozens of the Blood Elf fleet ships and many other canoes ferrying troops and supplies to the beaches. So far, he had brought nearly half of his force up counting many thousands.

"Captain Loren, have your column form up. We are going to go on a mapping expedition" he said to a nearby human who with his men, passing out wooden crates from the ships.

"Sir?" the human replied in a puzzled tone.

"Well man, we can't just march into Durotar without knowing the enemies weaknesses and where they are" he answered in a baffled voice. Rebels in Theramore had destroyed most of the maps and supplies they had captured in a night raid. Another reason he had chosen Captain Loren's group was because the Captain himself was a bull-headed commander likely to destroy his battalion when faced with Orcs. Orcs were far different than the Undead that this human generation faced.

"Yes milord. Let us just finish unpacking the supplies from the ships" Captain Loren ended.

The transition from Theramore to the coast of Kalimdor went smoothly and without much difficulty other than a brawl that had spread between some humans and dwarfs. Before he departed, he left some orders for his commanders.

"In my absence, your 1st Corps is to prepare a settlement. I want this beach secure from any attackers. Am I understood Eolas?" Alaric spoke to his First Captain.

"Yes Lord Quel. The entire beachhead will be secure in time for when you get back"

"Good, now lets move out!" he shouted to Loren's battalion. The steeds from Theramore proved to be a resilient breed, good for the long trackless amounts of rugged terrain that lay ahead. Alaric had grown affectionate to his own horse, which he named Angorin, in honor of the last High-Elven King Angorin the Resilient.

For a long and tiring week, the band surveyed the landscape around them. Alaric learned of Stonetalon Peak, where a powerful artifact he would want to collect lay, called the Heart of Azune. They were constantly under attack by strange bird women harpies, or pig monstrosities called they dubbed quill boars. Even so, they found no hard evidence of Orc settlements or the vaunted Orc city of Ogrimmar.

"I think we have landed too far north of Durotar. Perhaps it lays to the south instead" Alaric stated one evening, about a week after they had set out.

The men had camped themselves in a canyon for the night, and the troops were scouring for an oasis to find some waters, or perhaps even a Fountain of Health, whose holy waters would revive those who had fallen sick. Suddenly, something caused the palms in front of them sway.

"Quillboars!" Alaric heard someone scream. From behind the branches sprung nearly a dozen quillboars. Alaric picked up a spear from the stack lying near his tent, and threw it with great intensity at the leading quillboar. The spear flying at its huge velocity gutted the quillboar passing clean through its back and out its ribcage. The quillboar let out a scream as it dropped to the floor writhing in its own gore. A thin line of Dwarven riflemen and Blood Elf archers lined up among the edge of the camp and let out a volley of arrows and musket balls. Instantly, another half a dozen of the quillboars fell to the sandy, gritty ground. The rest turned and fled.

"Damned animals" Alaric spat looking at the body of a fallen Blood Elf comrade. The Elf's throat had been cut by one of the quills flying through the air. Then, Alaric noticed that something was wrong.

"Captain, ready your men!" he whispered loudly to Loren who was standing but a few yards from him.

"What? Why milord?" the human asked, again without the understanding of a good tactician.

"It's a tra-"Alaric wasn't able to finish his sentence. From behind the camp, huge green skinned monsters rushed out of the brush. The brutes, whom stood nearly eight feet tall with bulky muscles, and wore nearly no armor except for the leather straps as clothes, were screaming something incoherent as they blindly ran with war axes toward the camp.

"Ready yourselves! Orcs are upon the camp!" Alaric ordered. But it was too late. By the time the Elf, Dwarf, and Human troops had noticed the attack, the Orcs had almost plowed through the battle line.

"The basterds!" Alaric thought while dodging and striking with his blade against an especially large Orc "They cornered the quillboars as bait for us!"

"Retreat! Fallback to the forest!" someone yelped. He saw Loren through the midst of battle calling to the last remaining soldiers gathering around him or already in flight. Alaric joined in his call, and for once, Loren seemed to understand their plight. The Blood Elf again and again evaded the Orc's axe throws and finally jumped to its side and thrust his blade into its skull. The Orc fell with a thump. He then jumped up and ran for the forest.

An hour had passed oh so slowly as Alaric gathered the survivors in the forest undergrowth. Of the three hundred troops in the regiment, only two dozen had made it out, and most were scattered throughout the canyon, probably to be rooted out by the Orcs.

"So, we are getting closer, if not already in Durotar" he mumbled silently. Alaric, sitting on a stone in the middle of a chartless forest slipped into deep thought of the past.

Of all the enemies he had faced over the centuries, the Orcs and Undead were the most vile, and despicable abominations he had ever faced. He remembered the battles of the Second War, and how Orgrim Doomhammer had driven his troops against the Alliance. He remembered fighting against the Horde at the shores of Gilneas, in Stromgarde, the desperate last stands of Lordaeron, and the burning of much of Quel'thalas. The liberation of Khaz-Modan, and the retaking of Stormwind. He also came to remember the red burning world of Draenor where he had fought with the archmage Khadgar, the veteran soldier Danath, and Lord Turalyon. He, and his brigade were the only survivors of Draenor that he knew of, escaping the wreckage of the realm before it imploded on itself through the Dark Portal.

Alaric zapped back to reality and realized that much of the night had passed. Whilst the troops slept, he scanned the surroundings quickly before sitting down again on the stone.

"I must get back to Eolas and the main army" he thought feverently. "Without me, the plan will fall apart".

The torn and ragged group of survivors cut a path back through the forest to find themselves standing on some cliffs, overlooking a vast desert spotted with clusters of trees and primitive huts.

"So, Durotar has been found at last. Now that we know the way, we can eliminate the Orc threat" Alaric spoke to his men. Just as the group began to turn back into the palm forest, more Orcs appeared from the sides. This time, Alaric knew it would be a fight to the death.

"Stand your ground! Do your duty! Rememberence of Lordaeron and Quel'thalas! Of Khaz-Modan and Azeroth!" he let loose a flurry of battle cries that some of his men cheered on. Others cried out in panic and fear and fled at full speed.

Just as an Orc desendid upon Alaric, something from behind collided with his head and back. He fell face first into the muddy ground.

The world was spinning. The wild look of the trees and sun violently twirled around creating a double image. Then, the world started to go dark. Alaric's vision had almost blacked out when he last saw an Orc towering above him.

Alaric's vision had completely blurred out into blackness. The last thing he heard was the thundering voice of the Orc.

"Leave this one alive. Take him to the Warchief"

7


	7. Chapter 6: Curse of Undeath

Chapter 6: Curse of Undeath

Southshore Lordaeron, Late Autumn 3281 Years of Arathor

Paladin Havin Danarith the Darkslayer looked across the open fields that extended along the Titan River banks. The river itself emptied into Southshore, the southernmost edge of the nation of Lordaeron. The Second Alliance Army, made up mostly of Lordaeron refugee soldiers, Gilneas brigades, and Stromgarde defenders was setting up base camp. The tents and fires stretched for miles along the muddy edges of the Titan River from which beyond was the Altrec Mountain Range.

"Father, how far is it to Hillsbrad?" the Paladin spoke up.

"A good few miles to the east my son" an elderly man spoke. He was Bolon Faol, son of Alonsus Faol of the priests of Northshire who boasted the greatest churches and religious centers of the Light. Faol was the direct leader of all Paladin Orders which were at the moment very spread out.

"My son, I must return to Northshire. The Clerics are angered by my secrecy in this mission. Just remember your part of the mission my son, your objective"

"Yes father" replied Danarith somberly.

"Rumors have reached me of this Sylvanis. They tell of unspeakable horrors in the City of Death. They...They tell of a new plague. One to wipe out humanity for good. We protectors of the Light must never allow this another Plauge to pass. Untold thousands were taken in the first wave, and we cannot afford another"

"But the King of Azeroth would never allow such a thing to happen. He would not sit by idly sire. He could not!" Havin stressed the point.

"Varian Wyrnn is a fool. He will do nothing about it. He cares only for his armies and martial strength. But we, my son, we of the Paladin Order and the Clerics of Northshire can defeat this abomination before it comes to pass. Do your duty to the Light son" and ending with that, Bolon Faol turned away and walked slowly on his stick to the ships.

After Lordaeron fell, its remaining cities began to operate as separate entities, raising their own defenses and market trade. Many of Lordaeron's royalty that had survived had fled to Hillsbrad, and it would be a symbolic victory to retrieve them and bring them back to safety. The 2nd Alliance Army was to link with the 1st and 5th Armies around Ambermill Village which lay west of the Hillsbrad Mounds and focus on retaking Silverpine Forest which was crawling with Forsaken and Scourge minions.

Paladin Danarith continued on his steed towards the camp. In the midst of tents and cots, he identified the regiment leaders and rode over to them.

"Evening gentlemen" he began "We are moving the Army in the morning by the order of Grand Marshal Praeton, new commander of the 2nd joint Alliance Army. Muster your men, and prepare to move out"

Murmers appeared as the mention of Anduin Praeton popped up. The men did not trust Praeton, he was a reckless commander, but was chosen because of his lust of aggressiveness. The man did not like being on the run. Also, he had given huge portions of his army to a rouge Blood Elf that had disappeared of the face of Azeroth.

When all the orders were handed out, and the rest was done, the men reported back to their cots. In the morning long lines of soldiers marched forward, kicking up plumes of dust in the morning sun.

The 2nd encountered little resistance along the way to Hillsbrad, but there was the occasional skeleton warrior or so. It had taken three days of hard marching, but at last Hillsbrad lay just over the next hill. Paladin Havin mounted his steed, and took a small portion of the cavalry with him to scout out the area ahead. It was roughly five o'clock as the scouting party left the main army. A huge pillar of smoke and ash appeared over a large hill that lay a quarter of a mile from their current position. Havin urged his horse to go faster, as daylight was quickly fading away. What he saw across the ridge of the hill, would stay with him forever.

The town Hillsbrad, was in flames. Still he could see those few who were riding on horseback towards him. The few left of the massacre. Havin the Darkslayer looked out across the flatlands and saw Undead. The largest army he had ever seen in his life. Tens of thousands were moving around. Abominations, ghouls, zombies, skeleton warriors and archers. Undead creatures were squirming in the fields, trampling the gardens of Hillsbrad. In the skies, undead dragons, Frost Wyrms circled and gargoyles blackened the already darkening air. Looking at the massive army of the dead, Havin Darkslayer turned back to look at his own army.

Looking upon the remnants of the population fleeing towards him, he knew what to do. Swinging onto his horse, Havin Danarith galloped straight into the fires of hell. The Paladin urged his steed faster and faster, the wind whipping in his face. All of a sudden, the Undead were upon him. His horse neighed in fright at the creatures, but again he urged it on, crushing more than one ghoul under its hoofs.

The small group of survivors were now passing him. He pointed to the cliff he had stood upon, and their supposed leader nodded just as they passed. Havin Danarith threw himself off his horse and in a mad fury, cried the magical words.

"Yherse Tal Uthalmos!" his warhammer glowed a bright white, especially coming out of the runes engraved on it. He threw it to the ground, and a earsplitting explosion and shockwave were emitted, sending hundreds of skeleton warriors and ghouls flying through the air. Almost immediately after the deed was done, there was a quiet lull as the Undead creatures hesitated their attack. The hesitation was what Havin needed. He pulled a long, dusty, scroll from his belt and read the words. Bright light filled around him, and he was teleported back to the cliff he had stood upon minutes before.

He needed a few seconds to recoup from the mindless charge he had just done. Using so much magic for the blast and then the teleport had drained his body of its energy.

"Sire, you are winded. Come, let us return to the camp" a knight next to him advised.

"No, the Light teaches us not to be foolish with the power it gives us. I will be fine, and yes, let us retire to the safety of the base camp. Our army, however, will not be able to hold an Undead force this vast at bay. It must be a Scourge force, for they acted as one, not as individuals like the Forsaken"

"Milord, begging your pardon, but bah! All this foul creatures seem the same to me. Let us end their undeath and feast on their bones!" the young knight replied dragging Havin to his feet.

"No, they are different. You shall learn that the difference, no matter how little, makes the biggest changes on the battlefield. Do not be a headstrong fool like so many others before you"

"Yes milord, let us return to camp" the put-down knight replied mumbling.

Half way on the trip back, they had to pass through a stretch of deadned grassland. The place seemed possessed by evil spirits or something of the sort. Before long, they came upon a ruined windmill with spilled, grey, grain.

"That grain carries the Plague of Undeath" someone remarked.

"This place is not safe. Let us hurry out of here" Havin Danarith said in a quick note. But it was too late. All of a sudden, there was a lone figure standing in front of the ragged group.

"Death Knight..." Havin said under his breath.

"Long has the Lich King foreseen your presence here Havin Danarith, Paladin...Darkslayer"

"How do you know of me?" he spoke in short, bitten words.

"The Lich King sees all Paladin. Ner'zul knows of your heritage. Your position is commander of the Scarlet Hammer, a Paladin Sect. He knows you are high gifted in the eyes of the Clerics of Northshire...He knows you have power...potential. He would offer you eternal life in death, as has been done to many. He could reward your efforts. It was even the Lich King who drove you to the very spot you now stand. He knew you would fall for the bait from Hillsbrad" the Death Knight spoke in turn "I am Lord Deathsythe. I hail from Stratholme, Lordaeron, under the kingship of our lord, Arthas...the Lich King"

"All that you are Death Knight, is a traitor. A portion of blight and bile of this world. The Light cleanses all! Attack!" he screamed to the dozen knights still with him.

He charged as well with the knights. To his surprise, the Death Knight mouthed some words, and the ground cracked and out crawled rotten skeletons. The former frames of men, bowing to this necromancer. He pointed towards the knights and at once they marched toward them some with no weapons other than their fists; others with pitch forks, and blades of various sorts.

The Paladin, sharing a horse with the young knight he had talked to earlier again jumped off. He swung his hammer once, and crushed the skull of one of the skelatal minions. He backlashed and caught another in the ribcage sending hollow bones everywhere. He preformed dizzing attacks and magic spells, but the skeleton warriors kept on advancing. To his sides, the mounted knights continued their fight against the undead warriors. As he looked around for the closest enemy, a sudden pain stabbed into his side. Looking slowly at his wound, he traced the sword that had struck him, still sticking inside, to the Death Knight; his face deadly pale, and eyes black as coals. The Death Knight made a comment. Danarith could not decifer it through the intense pain. It felt as if fire were eating through his insides.

All of a sudden, he noticed he was alone. The knights lay dead on the floor and the skeleton warriors gathered around him; but the Death Knight beckoned them to back away.

"So, here we are eh Paladin? I don't believe I told you before, but, you don't have a choice. The Lich King wants your power...now" the pale Death Knight raised a hand. Green energy danced around in his palm.

"You wouldn't dare!" was all Havin could spit out.

"Death Knight!" a voice bellowed in his head.

"Yes Lich King, milord?" the Death Knight replied.

"Take command of the Scourge in your area. Cleanse it of humanity. Cleanse it of their fallow religion" the immense voice exploded through his head.

"Yes Lich King. By your command" the now pale and cold, former human body replied.

"Perform this task to prove yourself to me Death Knight Havin Lightslayer..."

8


	8. Chapter 7: The Invasion of Durotar

Chapter 7: The Invasion of Durotar

Barrens, Kalimdor. Early Winter, 3281 Years of Arathor

Pain. There was a pain that emanated from his head, and spread to the rest of his body. But there was something more then the pain haunting him. A hunger...Something so volatile and needing...it seemed like he had been drained of energy...of magic for years...

Alaric'Quel awoke with a start. With sharp intake of air and he started to realize his surroundings. The air was hot, and dry. He was in a cage; the cage itself was iron (or so far as he could tell). His magical cape, and blood red armor were missing. He was left with the gallous piece of cloth that he wore under his armor and boots. Outside oh his cage, he could vaguely make out a Orc settlement. Their stronghold in the center of the village, as always, with the lumber mills and burrows surrounding. His vision blurred a little, and he blinked once or twice and it went back to normal.

"Damned Orcs" he muttered

One of the Orcs nearby noticed, and bellowed something Orcish. He then translated to English;

"Haha! The Elf awake! Frail little Elf, did that pat on head hurt you?" the greenskinned brute broke into laughter and was joined by those around him.

"Vermin" Alaric replied in a defiant voice

"Stupid Elf. I fight Elf in war far away, long ago. I fight Elf when we come from Draenor. I kill many Elf, I kill you too after Warchief talks to you. Then I eat your bones!" the grunt again laughed.

Alaric smiled in response. He looked around at his surroundings once more, his mind now focused. Behind him was a forest. Above, wyrvns and other indeginous flying creatures soared. To his left was a barricade and then a Orc Lookout Tower.

Suddenly, the Orcs all came to attention. A huge wolf, a Frostmane Wolf from what Alaric could tell approached from the Lookout Tower's area. On top of the wolf was a large Orc, not as bulky as these grunts, yet still muscular. His body, unlike the grunts and many of the Orcs he had ever seen was covered in a black armor. "Doomhammer's armor!" Alaric thought in a flash of remembrance "So this is their Warchief?"

"Warchief! This prisoner Elf was caught with a band of humans in Wilderness!" what looked to be the commanding grunt announced proudly.

"Ogrigar, nou garum fellow Orc. You are dismissed" the Warchief said in a deep, rugged voice. His battle stressed face then turned to Alaric. "You there Elf! What is your business in Durotar?"

Alaric replied nothing, studying the Orc. "It seems that they have an intelligent Warchief that looks promising enough to understand tactics, unlike others I could name" he thought.

"Speak up Elf, or I'll feed you to the razorwinds!" the Orc bellowed.

"I believe introductions are in need first Warchief. I am Alaric Faltron'Quel, blood related to the Sunstrider Dynasty. I am the last of our kind's ancient Dynasty, and I intend to see the race of the Elves upheld to victory and the end of our enemies. Quel'thalas will be retaken from the Forsaken, or Scourge, or anybody else who would dare touch our sacred soil"

"Well, little Elf, I am Thrall. Warchief of the Horde and creator of Durotar, this nation. I will have now why my soldiers found you and your band within our territory. To many of your patrols have been found in the area lately. Has Mrs. Proudmoore no control over her own people?" Thrall, the Orc replied in a sadistic tone.

"Good. He thinks that I am under the leadership of Theramore. But what did he mean by patrols?...Eolas...He must be scouting out the area for himself. Again, good" silently Alaric said to himself. "Tell me Warchief. How much of the Horde did you lead here?" he then spoke out loud.

"Enough to put up with any invaders if that is what you are pointing out at. Are you an Alliance agent? From what I know, the Alliance has fallen apart" Thrall then rebuked. Behind him, the sun was setting in a glorious orange and yellow aura that seemed to surround the Orc.

"Fool. The Alliance has failed the Blood Elves. We consort with no one unless we have to. We have learned that independence must be valued, and that committing yourself wholly to another's cause is folly. I will tell you Warchief; the time of the Horde has ended. May you all be cast into oblivion!"

"Fine. If you shall not answer questions, I have other ways of extracting information from you" and with that, Thrall, Warchief of the Horde departed back to his Frostwolf. Alaric watched him go. The whole conversation he had put up had been a ruse; to study the integrity and characteristics of this Orc. "He will put up a good fight when the time comes...it is coming very soon though" Alaric whispered.

Through the end of the evening a plan of escape formulated in Alaric's head. There was no way he could kill the Orc guards with physical arms, but there was always magic...

"It has been long since I used magic. Using it requires tremendous amounts of energy without the Sunwell. That is unless we use the dark magics. Yes, there is no other way" the plan was complete. In an instant, Alaric's cage was ripped open by the power of the magics around him.

"Asetha barana!" he screamed. A whirlwind of fire exploded around two Orcs and lit up the night sky. The vermin screamed and writhed as the flames consumed them. Another Orc was almost upon him. He then spun out another spell. "Gradar Nes Tonaskvlo!" in that very moment of time, the Orc charging him was banished by the magic. His physical body was banished to the Twisting Nether for a short while, while his spirit stood in its place witnessing all that was going on. From the Lookout Tower, an Orc shot an arrow that came whizzing towards him. The arrow was coming straight for Alaric, yet all he did was stand. In a split second, he caught the arrow inches away from his face, and it burned by the magic in his hand. He let a ball of summoned elemental flame escape from his hand, and it found its target; the wooden base of the Lookout Tower. Smugly he chuckled at the sound the Orc made when he found out his protective tower was coming down him in flames.

In the immediate vicinity there were no Orcs. He could see the settlement in the distance, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. They had to have seen the light show he had just put on.

"No rush needed" Alaric said to the corpses as he donned his arcane cape and body armor. And with that, he sprinted back into the forest behind.

It had taken him most of the night, but eventually he encountered one of his 'patrols' in the forest. Caringly, they took him back to the fortress now constructed on the beaches. Exhausted now from his capture, he retired to his quarters. After a while, he returned outside again. The Captains had assembled and were awaiting his orders.

"We're moving out" he replied to their frantic calls and suggestions. He pulled a map from his pocket and traced a line across it. "This is Durotar" on the parchment, a picture of a large peninsula jutted out of the mainland of Kalimdor. The peninsula was labeled 'Orc Land', and beside it was a vast stretch of grassland known as Mulgore. "We will create a warpath, distract the Orcs from the smaller portion of our army which will flank from behind, and lay siege to Ogrimmar. We have not a large force capable of taking on the entire Horde, and must require maneuver to get around the slow moving Orcs. Good luck to us all, and let victory come to the Light"

At first dawn, the Expedition set out. They crossed into the borders of Durotar at the edge of the Barrens, many leagues to the north. The marching itself took two grueling weeks, but eventually, the Alaric'Quel's force split in two. The larger, continued on its path between Mulgore and Durotar, intent on drawing out the main Orc forces. The smaller, led by Alaric himself, stealthily maneuvered past Dustwallow Marsh, where many Trolls seemed to reside.

"Damn I hate these primitive Trolls" Alaric mumbled one night in the Marshes. Beyond him was an ever stretching bog. A stinking, steaming swamp. In the distance Alaric could vaguely make out the mountains surrounding Durotar and shot a hateful glance at them. The Trolls had originally been very ancient creatures in Azeroth, even more so than the High Elves themselves. When Quel'thalas had been established firmly, a massive Troll army invaded, killing many of Alaric's kin. The humans of the long destroyed, noble empire of Arathor had aided the Elves in a war against the Trolls. After years of warfare, they had defeated them. As the Orcs entered Azeroth nearly 3,000 years later, they recruited the remnants of the Trolls once great civilization into the Horde. And so, more decades of blood drenched fighting insuded, in turn creating a new wave of disgust to the Trolls, who lived trying to preserve their dead ways.

Alaric then turned to his trusted, hand drawn map he had himself created after his...experience on the outskirts of Durotar. The Horde did not seem to notice that his army had split in two, or even less that they were a threat from across the Great Sea. The few days of fighting in the fly infested Dustwallow marsh had alerted the Trolls though.

"Lord Alaric, another wave of Troll warbands is approaching from the east. Our forces are currently deployed to the west of us, and will not be able to reach the command camp in time!" a Blood Elf runner announced, catching his breath after what looked like a long run from the outposts.

"Let them come. We shall fight them ourselves!" he replied, bloodlust overtaking him. Since the robbing of the Sunwell, the Elf kind had been drained of spirit. Overcome by anger and baser feelings...The magic that had sustained them suddenly gone had left them to fend for themselves completely on all terms, including that of lesser emotions. Before the Sunwell was destroyed, an Elven commander would surely had thought Alaric's rash decision over.

Alaric himself noticed this, yet was not suaded by his own conscience. It didn't take long for a party of a couple of dozen Blood Elf and human troops to group around him. Suddenly, then from the trees beside them, whispers and rustling came. Then, a chant. The strange voodoo religion of the Trolls required them to chant before going into battle, and it seemed they were fulfilling this. Before long, waves of bluish and green Trolls scampered out of the forest. The creatures, about eight to eight foot five in height wielded mostly spears and rock knives.

"Kill the Elves!" cries arose from the Trolls. "Va shnak lovodok! Trai sta stain lopu! (Avenge your ancestors and heritage. Revive you honor, throw off your shackles!)

"Kill them all!" was another battle cry that rose from Alaric's line. The Blood Elven troops then cried out "Even Stalimos Quel'thalasen! (Long Live Quel'thalas) Alaric dodged, and swept around using his most advanced swordsman techniques.

The Blood Elfs themselves seemed to start using magics and seemed to have less trouble with it.

"Ever since we came to Kalimdor, a new power has been lit in us. I wonder what has caused this miracle?" Alaric quickly thought.

The battle did not last long. The 'great Troll army' had turned out to be no more than a hundred of the kind. Most of them were spear throwers and melee fighters. There weren't many spell casters, as he seemed to remember back from the days in Lordaeron. But there was one big Troll, shooting hexes and spells in all directions, screaming in their strange voodoo language. Alaric quickly sunk his blade into that one to prevent him from killing any more of his men. That Troll lay before his feet now, still alive, but near death.

"Yo mon. Jus' tryin' to keep our lands free of your wretched kind. You havin' no clue how much we hatin' Elves. They take away everythin' from us, includin' land from far across sea" the Troll sputtered, black blood pooling from its mouth.

"I am going to put an end to your wretched kind vile beast" Alaric said triumphantly. He raised his blade.

"No mon! Wait, NOOO!!!" the Troll yelled those last words before the Elven blade sliced through its head.

Alaric smiled at his kill. Looking back to his men, he raised his blade and a cheer arose. Before sending off runners to regroup the main force, he looked upon the corpse of the Troll. On it lay a talisman. "Hmm. I wonder..." Alaric said to himself. Upon the talisman were runes enscribed saying; WHOMEVER CONTROLS THIS TALISMAN, CONTROLS THE GATES OF AZSHARA AND THE PATHS TO THE DUNGEN OF LORE. "Ah, this is a talisman of ancient Night Elven craft. A powerful artifact that now I may be able to use to reach the waters of Eternity with impunity. But this part about the ancient queen of past, Azshara...This must also be a key to the Dungen of Lore, in out ancient city capital, the place once center to all Night Elves. That was before the invasion of the Burning Legion...but I thought this was a legend, a myth. Amazing that such power and responsibility should have landed on my shoulders, from a Troll! The wretched creature probably knew nothing of its power. But I have matters to attend to. Before I reach Ashenvale itself, I must deal with the Orc. Now, for Durotar itself..."

The smaller portion of the Expedition continued through the last remnants of the Dustwallow Marshes and back into the last long stretch of the Barrens. It took another week to traverse the hot, dry, and barren landscape. Finally though, the smaller Expedition force came to the Gap of Imdor. From across the small, but deep body of water, they could see the landmass of Durotar. The Expedition continued and silently bypassed the mountain ranges surrounding Durotar. The Expedition Force, the last hope of the Elf's, the best hope of Humanity, had entered Durotar, land of the Orc...


	9. Chapter 8: Battle of Mulgore Plains

(Thanks to all the dedicated readers that have been waiting for this next chapter. I've kind of been away from the computer a lot lately but I've finally got this chapter finished. Tune in next time, for a special 'Thanks Giving Special')

Chapter 8: Battle of Mulgore Plains

Barrens-Mulgore Border, Kalimdor. November 6th, Early Morning 3218, Years of Arathor

Genn Blakswift had serviced in the 1st Alliance Army for years now. Since the end of the Second War, when he was but a young lad, he had always preformed the duties of a perfect footman. He had fought in countless engagements against bandits, pirates, and of course, the Undead. But he had seen no stranger lands than these. The ones that his superiors had called 'Kalimdor'. The very skies and waters themselves seemed different...alien. He had been part of the 1st Army for twenty years before now. He served under the orders mostly of Marshals Garithos and Praeton. Anduin Praeton though, had for reasons unknown to him, reassigned his entire unit to the commands of an Elf called General Alaric'Quel. The Elf had brought him across the ocean to here, this barren and boring land.

He knew from the moment he saw the dust clouds rising in the distance the night before, that the enemy was closing in on their force. His entire group of scouting footmen, had been murdered by grunt skirmishers that were ahead of the advanced Horde group. Only he had escaped, and was now acting as a runner, to warn the Expedition of the impending Orc attack. He had run as far as he could for as long as he could.

"I need a break..." Genn said panting loudly. He collapsed on top of a flat mesa that had in the morning been but a vague image against the horizon. He looked out into the distance again, and saw the truly massive Orc force. They seemed to be divided into three armies, coming from the northeast. In them he could spot thousands of peons and grunts. Before the mesa was a moving carpet. It seemed like the ground itself was crawling around.

"Got to warn the Captain!" he grunted getting up slowly, in pain from the long run. And so he was off again, trying to run to the outpost that lay still two miles ahead. Blakswift looked back once more, and this time, ran like all the demons in the universe were chasing him; he ran like he had never run before.

Redrock Steppes, Barrens/Kalimdor Border Early Morning, November 6th

"Bring up those catapults!" Warchief Thrall ordered in a harsh tone. The Horde was moving _en masse _towards Mulgore Plains. A vague army of assorted Dwarves, Humans, and Elves had been spotted in this region. The legion of invaders had identified themselves as the "Light's Crusade". "That Elf that escaped from our internment camps must have been a scout after all. Hmm...this makes no sense at all. We have not moved against the Alliance at all, so why do these...people insist on warring against us?" Thrall spoke quietly to himself. The answer was apparent: The Horde and the races of Azeroth had long been at war, and had destroyed many kingdoms. The war nowadays had its issues such as the humans and elves wishing to regain their former glory and the Dwarves prejudices for the Hordes purges in Dun Morogh years ago. "Focus on the present" he reminded himself.

Before Thrall, was the largest force he had ever seen. His numbers estimated in the tens of thousands. Perhaps even up to 50,000 joint Horde Ogers, Orcs, Trolls, and Tauren. Thrall himself had recruited the Ogers, Trolls, and Tauren back into the fold as soon as the interlopers had started heading toward Mulgore and its rich grasslands, no doubtidly trying to cause havoc and collateral damage.

"Warchief!" a raspy voice called out. It belonged to a shaman, the heralders, religious leaders, and some of the best spell casters of the Horde. Behind him were several of his order, dressed in the ceremonial white wolf skins. The old shaman stood at attention, awaiting orders to continue. Thrall nodded.

"This morning, my brothers and I beheld an eagle fighting against a vulture. The eagle won the scrap, and this foretells a great victory here this day. Ogrimmar ogar Warchief!" the shaman explained.

"Lok-tar old warrior. Today we run to battle!" he replied in a regular tone.

He then urged his wolf-mount forward towards the front of the lines, past all the pickets and skirmishers. Along the way, various assortments of Orcs, Trolls, and Tauren would thump their chests and bow. As Thrall neared the edge of the force, he spotted a creater much larger than the rest. Its high shoulders and light tanned skin, bulging muscles and strange eye-mask made it easy to see.

"Hail Warchief!" the half Orc called out.

"Rise Rexar. What information on the enemy do we have?" Thrall questioned. The Beast Master who had scouted te area was of the last of the Mok'nathal Clan of half Orc-Ogers. Rexxar's strength and courage had been invaluable in the Admiral Proudmoore affair years ago, and again he had proved himself.

"The valleys ahead provide little area for ambush, and the Vasok (Enemy) have entrenched themselves on the opposite side of these cresting hills." The Beast Master replied. It seemed impossible for this creature to be able to quietly spy on an enemy with all his large features, yet Rexxar had great abilities to control and tame animals, and blend in with the wild somehow. "Thrall, it is an honor to give battle beside you again" the charismatic Mok'nathal spoke up after a short silence.

"Yes, you to old friend. It seems that by afternoon, that valley over there will be flooded with blood" Thrall observed the valley but a league away.

"Yes, and with you leading us, we shall feast on their bones in their own camp tonight. For with you Thrall, the Horde has never lost!" Rexxar exclaimed excitement and battle lust washing over him. Thrall turned away. In the distance, he could tell of the fires and smoke rising from the enemy camp.

Again he turned to face the Horde army now passing by. The Durotar standards and banners decorated with human, elf, and dwarf skulls on the top of their poles, fluttered silently in the morning wind. In quiet reverence he watched as the wild Trolls, muscular Orcs and Ogers, and huge Tauren bow as they marched past. He suddenly sprang into the middle of a column, grabbed a standard and waved it in the air. He then ripped a human skull from the top of it and crushed it with a mighty cry.

"To war! Lok-Tar warriors!"

Redrock Steppes, Mulgore Border, noon, November 6th

Karl Steinwolfe jumped off his mount with a thud. He was an old, crotchety wizard that had come a long way, in a short time and was not happy about the rush. He had been part of the High Kirin-Tor Council in Dalaran, back in its days of glory. After the city had fallen into ruin, he had become a rouge mage; hired by those who had the heftiest wallet. So far, that person turned out to be Alaric'Quel, an Elf. Karl didn't think much of Alaric. The Elf was too full of vivid imagination and glorious thoughts.

"Whats done is done I always say" the wizard spoke to some footmen nearby. He heard one of them in the background whispering

"Bah, that damned old wizard is talking again. I liked his snoring better"

"If you have something to say to me son, then say it to my face" the old mage said turning around. The footman stiffened eyes wide. "I may be old, but I can hear fine. Hell, I can fight fine too! I've been fighting Undead and the Horde since you were even conceived!" and with that, Karl continued his walk down through a neat road between the massive number of tents set up.

The 'Light's Crusade' had landed near the Dustwallow Marsh and had then abruptly turned westward without warning. Being a higher up, Karl at least knew that the Expedition was splitting up. But by now, everybody had figured out that the force was smaller.

Across the open plains, he could see a vast mountain range to the north, and rolling hills in front of him. The Orc army was out there...he had been tracking their movements from the plumes of dust that had flown up at their arrival. And right in the middle of the two forces was a single valley.

"That is where it shall be resolved. And there is where the Cause will prevail" Karl spoke out loud again to anybody who could hear him. More groans.

........................................................................

"They are coming!" a voice cried out. Karl stepped out of his tent. It was two in the afternoon, and a single scout ran past the tents screaming his head off.

Just then, the brass trumpets blared. The tune they were playing was the 'Prepare for Battle'. The trumpets rhythms seemed to create an air of grim determination in the camp. Around Karl, men were suiting up in their mail and plate armors. Contingents of dwarven riflemen were pumping balls into their muskets and donning their steel caps and green capes. The Blood Elf commanders though, had strict command over the camp. They were the ones running the show.

"Damned Elf's think they can do everything" Karl remarked sarcastically. He never truly liked the Elfs. They had caused Dalaran much headache in its days. Always sending magical advisors and telling humans what they could and couldn't do. And those damned Runestones! Everywhere he looked in the city, those horrid slabs of rock stood out with their glowing elvish print. "Nothing to do now but fight" and so he did. Karl mounted his black mare that was, stood the green plentiful grass.

It didn't take long to shift most of the men into battle readiness. They left camp behind with only the small reserve, and headed towards the valley nearby. Across the rolling valley, Karl could now clearly see the Orcs deploying. It was then a moment of breathlessness. On top of a slab of rock, a Blood Elf, perhaps Eolas, second in command of the Cause and the Crusade, motioned his sword forward crying something out. An amazing spectical. Karl could see above the masses of soldiers thanks to his think weary body and tall horse. He put his staff on his lap and stretched his neck out. Behind was a nicely sized force of gray metal glittering in the sun. To his fore however was a sea of green Orcs dressed in their battered leather and rugged cloth and the annoying Trolls wearing nothing but scraps of leaves, skins, and cloth found on dead enemies. The sun was now setting slowly, leaving a bright orange sky. There was nothing to their sides but grasslands, and a few occasional boulders.

Loud thumps and noises like thunder erupted behind Karl's back. The dwarven mortar teams had opened up.

"Fire 1! Fire 2! 40 degrees upwards! Eat lead! Eat mortar!" a dwarfs cried as the mortar shells carring archaic gunpowder flew up into the air. He then heard a stupid remark, only dwarfs capable of such things. "We must defeat the dwarves!' another answered. 'We are the dwarves' 'Oh!' The Orc catapults returned fire with huge uncarved stones and boulders. The massive rocks smashed into the Crusade's lines killing many each time.

"Forward!" a cry echoed among the battlefield. The order was relayed through captains, who headed smaller portions of the army. On the opposite side of the valley, the Orcs had already begun their charge. It seemed the two would collide in a massive conflagration in the middle of the valley itself, drenching it in the tides of war. Karl let loose a massive blue wave of energy that downed two dozen Orcs in mere seconds. The Crusading army then rushed, battle cries echoing, the sound of thousands of thumping metal boots, swords and axes clashing, spears and musket balls crossing, engulfed the small valley.

Redrock Steppes, Mulgore Border, Late Afternoon, November 6th

Eolas paced the floor of his makeshift tent quickly.

"Lord Eolas, I do not believe that the battle can be won. There are simply too many of the Horde-they are overpowering us. Look to this map. They are pouring thousands of reserve into the line, and our men are being slaughtered" a Blood Elf captain spoke gravely.

"The point of this battle is not to defeat, but to slow down the Horde. We must hold off the greater part of the Horde as Lord Alaric'Quel ravages their homeland" Eolas replied.

"If it is the point sir, than we cannot hold them much longer. By nightfall, Orcs shall be in this very tent sir" the same Blood Elf replied.

Eolas had trouble seeing the point in the Cause. There was simply too few Elfs left. He only heeded the voice of Alaric, his close friend. 'I truly wonder if the Cause can prevail...the odds are against us' he thought.

"Send forth all reserves. We shall see how long we can hold the beasts off" and with that cliffhanger, he left the tent.

Outside, the sky was starting to darken, the early vestiges of night taking over. News from the front was not good. News from the front was never good. In the past few years, the news had gotten worse and worse, and sometimes Eolas just went with the flow of things. 'If something is such, then let it be. I am here because of my life debt to Alaric though..." his conflicting feelings were especially vivid when he was alone.

Two hours later, he was towering over a map of the field, estimating where Alaric's force could be right now.

"We _must_ have bought him enough time" he said quietly.

A runner then rushed towards him. Eolas turned to the young human male, that seemed completely drained.

"Yes, what news from the front now?" Eolas inquired.

"Very bad sire. Our forces have taken extreme losses. In many divisions, over half of the fighters are dead. They have broken through the line in several fronts and make their way here now" the runner explained while trying to catch his breath.

"Who is in command of the field now?"

"A mage sire...Karl Steinwolfe, of Dalaran"

"Get some water, calm down son. I shall have another do the next run, for I know you have been at this all day" he said, which seemed to please the runner boy very much.

He filed out his best horse rider, and gave him a short message addressed to Karl Steinwolfe. It ordered to pull all remaining forces back. To retreat with full speed to the fallback point at Lushwater Oasis, to the east.

He turned to the remaining Blood Elf lieutenants that were filling the tent. Most were covered in grime and blood from the battle they were returning from.

"My fellow brothers, we have been defeated here" he stated. The thought of defeat caused a outrage in the Blood Elf's.

"Calm my brothers. For this was all foreseen by Alaric'Quel, our leader of the Cause. A great battle was fought today, and you all distinguished yourselves. This shall go down in the history scrolls as the Battle at Mulgore Plains, and it shall say that this battle was part of the grand design of the Crusade, for it _was _meant to be this way. Now return to your units and report back to me at Lushwater Oasis, where we shall all regroup and reunite with Alaric's force"

The Lieutenants filed out slowly.

"I only hope that we did not lose to many this day" a voice spoke in the dark.

"Karl-Old Karl Steinwolfe, eh?" Eolas replied trying to keep an unsurprised tone.

"Yes, many were slain on the fields of Mulgore. I pray to the Light it does not disrupt the plans of your vaunted Elf hero"

"Watch your tone wizard!" Eolas shot back. "You are under my command, and it is my wish, and order, for you to fall back to Lushwater Oasis"

"As you wish...milord" the wizard said sarcastically. That was that damned old witch's specialty.

"Well, the Battle for Mulgore Plains is over. But this war has just begun" Eolas concluded with himself. He returned to his map, and studied the strange continent of Northrend, with his own plans in mind.

And far away, Alaric'Quel and his force were wreaking havoc on the little defended Durotar and Ogrimmar. Soon, it would be time to travel north, to the forests of Ashenvale...

11


	10. Interlude: Thanks Giving Special

-Interlude-

Thanks Giving Special

(Time Consuming? Yes. Funny? Probably not. Well thought out? No. Product of a bored mind? Definitely. Anyway, heres a short Thanks Giving Special that has absolutely nothing to do with the storyline of WOTR. Enjoy, and by next week, I should have my next chapter up; "Stonetalon and Oracle")

Narrator- "Ah yes! Gather round' and I shall tell you the tale of the Azerothian Thanks Giving. It is a long and lively story, but I shall shorten it for you to hear and not take up to much of your time"

Narrator-"Twas long ago, when sails were in lack and seas were black. The King had ordered an expedition to colonize the New World, which had been found shortly before. An intrepid group of pilgrims sailing on the '_Tirrasian Flower' _made their way across the long and open sea braving many a storm and sea creatures. On their journey, they encountered many evil and nasty sea creatures such as Sea Giants, Aquanaga, and huge Sea Turtles that plagued their food supplies.

Eventually though, the crows nest spotted land.

"Land ho! Land ho!" he cried.

Captain Kalimdorachimos swung up on to deck. "Bring us about onto that rocky cove. We shall anchor and disembark"

The sailors and pioneers in the _Tirrasian Flower_ were relieved to be off board the cramped and lice, and rat infested ship. So they set up a small camp near the rock that they dubbed Mulgore Rock.

Upon setting foot on the New World, the Captain gave a quick speech.

"I now claim this World in the name of the King and christen it "Kalimdorachimos" after my liking" the fat captain said vainly.

"Uh, sir, that's a pretty long name. Why not shorten it?" someone anonymous shouted out.

"Fine, fine! This land is Achimos!"

"Uh, sir, that's pretty stupid" the same person said. The Captain spotted him, pulled out his pistol, and fired it into the man.

"Cricky, me leg!"

"Ah, shut up. This land is Kalimdor, happy? Now haste and make camp!"

The pilgrims settled quickly and adapted to the new climate. But when seasons changed to winter, the group was hit by a massive plague they called "The Maze Plauge" that turned nearly a third of them into flesh eating zombies. The colonists then relocated higher up the peninsula.

The area above Mulgore Rock that they relocated was a very quiet and serine place...or at least they thought at first. Missing food, whispers in the forest, and tinkering with the rifles brought a thought of curse and haunting down upon the place.

Eventually, the _Tirrasian Flower_ group met formally with the natives, whom identified themselves as Tauren.

"What is that?" one of the pilgrims cried out at the first sight of the Tauren. "By jolly, it's a cow! Lets roast it for dinna'!"

"Wait, it looks like an intelligent cow. Lets talk to it" another, Jon Jinklehiemer Smith said whispering to his friend.

"An intelligent cow!!?? What are you stuffing in your pipe lad? Those hardtack biscuits are gettin' to your mind are they'?" the first replied in sheer surprise at Jinkleheimer's comment.

"Well, its got a damned bandana around its head, has a staff in its hand, and is walking upright" Jinklehiemer then said.

"All right lad, but if your going to get impaled by a cow, or cost us dinner, I'm going to-I don't know. It looks tasty damnit!" Wesle, the first, cried out.

"Who goes there? Pinkskins? Hmph, hoo!" the cow spattered. "I am Poke'hontus the Tauren Chieftains daughter.

The thing was talking directly at Joe and Wesle.

"I'll be! It does talk. That'll make it hard to herd into camp" Wesle whispered to Joe. "Bah, it said it's a girl! Holy moly, it's the ugliest girl I've ever seen. I bet their Chieftain, that she talked about, is ashamed of that!"

"Shut up. Can't you think past looks and food?" Joe shouted back. He approached the Tauren. "Hello-I-am-Joe-of-the-Lands-Far-Away" he cut his sentences to try and get the Tauren to understand.

"I can hear you fine. I know your kind pinkskin. You ravage out lands, and kill our brothers, the buffalo" Poke'hontus replied.

"Ah, so it understands us does it" Wesle said getting closer. "Oh god! Whats that vile smell? Phewf, its her damned breath. Lord it stinks"

"Shut the hell up Wesle. I'm trying to make First Contact!" Joe

nearly screamed at the other, scrawnier pilgrim.

First Contact didn't go well. But eventually, the starving pilgrims sought out the Taruen for refuge and food. The Tauren took them in, and gave them an inaugural feast.

"To our new friends, the Pinkskin Humans!" the Chieftain cried in a happy voice. "Enjoy your meal. It is the finest we could harvest"

The humans enjoyed the crunchy and juicy plant they were eating.

"Whats s' called?" someone asked outloud.

"Maze!" the Chieftain replied happily.

The humans stared down at their plates in horror, remembering the Maze Plauge. Then, it was chaos.

"Every man for himself! Destory the Tauren!" and thus began the Manifest Destiny, where the land of Kalimdor was forever taken over by humans.

(Yes, it was short. Yes it was stupid. I was bored and thought it would be good to write a Thanks Giving Special to get away from all the seriousness in my story. Well, as I said before, next week I should have my next chapter in, where the Light's Crusade turns its eye north, to the lands of the Night Elves)


	11. Chapter 9: Stonetalon and Dungons

Chapter 9: Stonetalon and Dungeons

(Well, as World of Warcraft now nears, I'm going to be adding more and more elements to the story since I'll probably be picking that up soon enough. Anyways, I know I have been writing a bit slow lately, holidays and all, but make sure to REVIEW and I can keep em' coming quickly. PLZ REVIEWS PEOPLE!)

The smell of grass, and nature surrounded him. There was a certain tension permeating in the air, one that deeply disturbed him. He beheld Silvermoon, its great towers and sunstone buildings built and intertwined with nature. In front of him, were the Elven defenders.

They stood to the fore of a massive gate: The last of the great Gates of Quel'thalas. They were the last line of defense, the last hope against the innumerable Unholy Ones. The Gate shook violently. The blood stained swords and armor of the Elven defenders glistened in the setting deep red sun.

He yelled something incomprehensible as he saw metal and weapons hacking at the magical arcane gate. All of a sudden, the gate shattered into hundreds of pieces, and from it came a sea of blood and dismembered parts. The meat wagons had been targeting the city all day. People were asking, and praying to the Light; Where are our armies? Where is the Ranger General? Now, it was over. They had broken through, and nothing could stop them from proceeding to the innermost parts of the ancient city. All had failed. He was pushed back to the Temple of the Sunwell. The bastion where the last knot of defenders were slowly rallying. They would die a glorious, eternal death. A wave of death, and most had perished. The abominations, and beasts of the Scourge hit their lines, and destroyed most of his comrades in arms, and there was nothing left for him but to flee the broken city. And he, Alaric Faltron'Quel, swore eternal revenge.

"Citizens of Silvermoon! I have given you ample opportunities to surrender, but you have stubbornly refused! Know that today, your entire race, and ancient heritage will come to an end. Death itself has come to the high home of the Elves!"

The voice echoed continually in his head. It drove him onwards, became his every dark thing in the corners of his mind. It was the voice of a prince, a possessed one, a traitor, a king, and the one true enemy of the world. It was the voice of Arthas, the Lich King. If it cost him his life, the Lich King _would_ die.

……………………………………………………………

Edge of the Barrens, Kalimdor. 621 Years of Azeroth, November 20th

It was the beginning of the second month of their arrival on Kalimdor. The Crusaders of Light had traversed from Theramore to Dustwallow, from Durotar to Mulgore. Now, at last, the Horde was defeated. Its infrastructure and 'great warrior city' in flames.

Alaric stood upon the charred corpse of an Orc, whom had fought valiantly to control the chaos in the city's surprise attack. His name was forgotten to time, but not to Alaric.

"Drek'Thar" Alaric said quietly to himself. The elder Orc shaman had fought so valiantly, that he at least deserved a separate pyre from those of the other rabble. Alaric looked around at the empty skeletons of the city; its towers burned to ashes, the burrows blasted open by magics. Not many Orcs had survived the sudden rush on the city. Most had fought to the death, as the Orcs they were. But some had gathered objects Alaric cared not for, and fled. They probably called it a 'stragigic retreat' but it mattered not to him.

"I can only hope Eolas and the other detachment is doing as well as us" a Blood Elf lieutenant, Dethal Tordeas spoke up.

"Are you fine Dethal? I saw you hit during the battle." Alaric questioned.

"I am fine. Nothing but a flesh wound. Sire, I have something to talk to you about"

"First, Eolas has sent me a runner. He tells of a great battle, in which they were closely defeated, but he managed to rescue the greater whole of the force. He marches north to meet us at this very moment. Now, let us seek shade under the kind hospitality of Ogrimmar" Alaric answered sarcastically.

The two Elfs moved under cover one of the skeleton remains of the central keep.

"Milord, you have led us far, and you have led us well. I expected a fight and also victories. But sire, I did not expect what has been happening to us so soon. The radical magic withdrawls have stopped almost completely. It seems like the powers of the Sunwell are almost within physical grasp, but of course they are not" Dethal stated bewildered at the change that had come over his people.

"Yes, I have noticed it too. I suppose it is because of we are nearing the Well of Eternity's waters. Rest assured my good soldier and friend, once we acquire the waters, nothing shall stop the Blood Elf from avenging our ancestors and heritage! But first, we must seek out special magical artifacts to hold them in. We cannot just put these holy waters in vile pieces of glass! I have heard the legends of the Oracle and of mystic Stonetalon Peak. We must first travel there, before proceeding with the final phase of the grand plan" Alaric mentioned. "Let the last full measure begin! Rally the troops; prepare to march within the hour!"

So the Expatiation turned northward. They encountered little resistance from the scattered Orc forces in Durotar, and were safely able to return to the Barrens. Then, did they meet the ragged survivors of the Battle of Mulgore.

"Eolas, you damned fool!" Alaric's head was pounding. "Your tactics compromised the entire plan! You don't even have a roster for your casualties yet they are so high. You were supposed to fall back, ambush, and engage guerrilla activities against their army. What the hell were you thinking butting heads with them? They outnumbered your three to one!"

Eolas's battle report had reached him by now. Alaric had read the report with eagerness only to reach the end of it with vehemence.

"Milord, I was unaware you wanted me to but distract the Orcs. I believed you wanted them destroyed, or at least buy time enough to destroy Durotar. So I did the only thing I could and confronted my enemy head on" Eolas struggled to defend himself.

A courier had come in, whispered something in Alaric's long ears.

"Eolas" he said in a quiet tone, obviously a dam holding back tons of energy and anger "You are relieved of command until further notice"

"Sire…Alaric, my friend! I have committed no crime!"

"No crime Eolas? Is not destroying nearly half of this army a crime? I gave you the orders verbally, myself. Eolas, you must prove yourself again to me to be in command again. I am sorry old friend. Prove yourself worthy, and you again will earn my trust" Alaric now said, a wave of sorrow and pity passing over him.

Eolas left the tent quietly, with a curt nod. Now that the business was done, he left the tent for a briefing with his Captains and Lieutenants whom had gathered in a half circle in front of his tent.

"Now hear me!" Alaric said in a passionate voice "We have at last reached the outskirts of Ashenvale. But it is not our destination right now" the second part of his speech caught groans and angry shouts among the leading council. "Silence! We simply cannot capture the arcane powers of the Waters without mystic vials. These vials, I have read rumor of, lie in the dungeons of Stonetalon Peak. My warriors, and fellow brethren. The long and arduous journey nears an end. We must but collect the items and Waters, and return. Then, in the snows of Northrend, undo the Scourge. Let us march together one last time" he ended walking away, his cape floating behind him.

The journey had taken them from the Plaugelands of Lordaeron and Quel'thalas, to the ruins of Dalaran; the Great Sea, and noble Foothold Citidel in Theramore. To the rugged Barrens, into fierce Durotar itself, and the lush grasslands of Mulgore. There was but one last step before the final plunge.

The Crusade finally approached the Stonetalon Mountains. In the distance, a great peak rose above the rest of them. Its top was covered in a powdery snow, and its base was a riddle of canyons and boulders. The reduced numbers of the Crusade of Light passed ancient ruins, the remnants of smoldering battlefields, abandoned human castles and the rotting wood of Orcish huts.

"War has visited this place before us…and it seems to have settled quite nicely for a while as well" Alaric thought as they passed the yellow boned skeletons of human footmen, half buried in the thick, grainy sand.

In the canyon ahead, a thick, brown dust rose. To the edges of the canyon, Alaric made out the Alliance of Lordaeron banners, flapping lazily in the alkali air. As Alaric and the Crusade's Blood Elf vanguard approached, Alaric could make out several silhouettes in the rising grime. Humans, and dwarfs, and something else.

"DOOMGUARD!" the Blood Mage called out. Alaric and his elite dismounted and ran to the aid of the anonymous Alliance force.

The Doomguard was huge. This demon must have been one of the few that survived the Invasion and the Battle of Mount Hyjal. It's massive size, searing green eyes, and deep maroon flesh already struck fear into its opponents. Yet it also boasted a gigantic flaming blade, that when it struck the ground, cracks and fissures appeared. With each swing more and more of the Alliance soldiers were flung into the air.

Alaric let loose a ball of summoned elemental fire. It struck home and rammed straight into the Doomguard's armor, yet only denting it. Now seeing his new enemies, the demon turned to face them. Its blade swept towards Alaric, but he managed to sidestep before it sliced him in half. Again, it lifted its massive sword and flung it down on the Blood Elf. Alaric this time had no choice. He lifted his sword, and met the Doomguard's. An explosion of sparks. The demon seemed surprised that Alaric had been able to block his blow, yet now pushed harder. Alaric's muscles strained, and could not hold their own anymore. A human threw himself at the blade, knocking it out of Alaric's way.

"There is no way we can defeat it the way we fight-" Alaric planned quickly. "Yoa fothtra semena!" he cried.

Immediately, the ground began to crack. Flames licked from the open wounds in the earth. The fire jumped into the air, and formed a majestic phoenix. The great bird of fire looked at his summoned for instructions.

"My great friend, help us defeat this evil!" Alaric, the summoner then said.

The great fiery bird then turned its head towards its enemy. Opening its beak of flame, it let loose a great wall of orange.

The Doomguard was now overwhelmed. With the pesky little ones cutting at its feet and boots, and now a huge bird he couldn't touch, he began berserk. Knocking over boulders and stone arches, it tried to get rid of its enemies, to no avail.

It didn't take long to eliminate the beast after that. Sevel more magical strikes, and it was on the ground, helpless, its dark green blood pooling beneath it.

"We are in your debt good Elf" the human that had parried the blow in front of Alaric announced.

The human was clearly a Paladin, the human protectors of the Light. His armor was dented and starting to rust and his holy book that he had chained around his neck was torn and stained. The mans face was dusty, yet cheerful.

"You owe us nothing. We fight on the same side I believe" Alaric answered back. "Whom are you, and what is an Alliance force doing so far out in this desolate place?"

"I" the human Paladin said pointing to himself, "am Arrius the Pure of the Lordaeron Corps. This-" he then pointed to a stouter man, nay, a dwarf "is Gilmik Ironhand, of the Gilneas Brigade"

"Ay. We be out here a long time laddie. Might as well call this boxed canyon our home" the dwarf spoke up. _His _armor was well adorned, of course, for dwarvish fashion. It was embellished with jeweles and dwarf silver, found only in the deepest places of Azeroth.

"Yes, my companions and I have been here near two years as I recall. We fled across the Great Sea with the mage Jaina Proudmoore and came to this place seeking a mystic Oracle. After a battle with the Orcs, whom also came across the Sea, we were left as the rear guard for Jaina's main force that made its way north. We lost many good people in that battle. Soon after, we were cut off, and have desperately been fighting rouge demons and Orc raids ever since" the old Paladin explained.

"Then perhaps you should like to finish your journey, so long ago started and join us. We too search for the Oracle and whatever artifacts may lie in that dungeon" Alaric offered graciously.

"Milord, I do not trust these humans. And the Dwarves! Bah! Our people have never liked them. We have had quarrels since their discovery. I can't even stand the sight of one without lashing at it" a Blood Elf in the background whispered.

"This is not the time to cling to petty prejudices. Our forces have been sevearly thinned by the campaign against the Orcs. Much more of this, and I fear our structure will start to come apart" Alaric answered back, air hissing quickly.

"Well, if you and your friends are willing to accept us great one, we are certainly willing to get the hell out of this canyon. Ain't that right boys?" the old Paladin lifted his hand in a gesture of question sarcasm. Gimlik looked back at his Dwarves, and nodded bitterly. The idea of once again trusting the traitorous Elves gnawed at him, but he had no choice.

"Huzzah!" the humans and a few dwarves yelled back. The Dwarven and Elven races had always disliked each other, whether by distance between their homelands, or by some ancient wronging.

As the now extended army made its way up the creepily silent hills, Alaric inquired the Arrius of the entrance to the dungeon.

"It's at the very top of the peak, near the harpies nest. Those damned buggers swooped down every once in a while and ate one of my men. There, you'll find more ruins. Behind the great stone circle, it is there. A large cave opening that after a series of winding and maddening tunnels, leads to the Lord Chamber, where the Oracle is said to reside" the old Paladin replied steadily.

Alaric and the Paladin, as with a lot of the men, passed their time sharing old stories from war and better times.

"The Silver Hand. Greatest force of humanity I always said" Arrius continued a conversation "Then that basterd Arthas-You know something we all have in common? A universal hate for the Lich King. That is what binds us together. That is why the Alliance was created-for protection and shared hatred of the Orcs-and now, for all I know, we are the last of the Alliance"

"Nay, Arrius. You may have left Lordaeron and heard of its destruction, but still, there are survivors. Some of the nations still exist, even if barely. Stromgarde hangs by a thread, Gilneas is assailed at all sides, and Kul-Tiras is relatively safe. When I left the Alliance, it was rotting under the heel of the Undead, as has been for years. We need something world changing, something so powerful, that it threatens all, to destroy the Scourge. Marital strength and numbers will do nothing. Do you understand? We cannot fight that way. It is black and white, live or die. That is why I must do what I must, even if it damns us all" Alaric ended.

Alaric hung back, and waited for the Blood Elf priests to make their way to him. They would deliver premonition of what was inside those caves.

"Alaric'Quel, my brothers and I have sensed a great danger, and a dark threat lurking in those caves. It is full of evil ancient things, from the beginnings of the world. Things far older than our race, and the Kaldroei. A great sadness lingers in there" the elder one spoke. His whiskers twitched as he did so. The priests were the prime of the Light. Its greatest users and servants.

"We must pass no matter what the cost Priest. There is nothing that will deter me from my course" Alaric returned.

"Be warned Blood Mage, there lies nothing in there that will bring you salvation. Only the prolonging of death" the elder priest said, repeating his message.

Alaric, annoyed, stormed away. He sensed the power too. Something, good or evil, was in those caves.

Approaching the summit, he became more agitated. A huge black hole winded its way through the rock face at the top of the mountain. Alaric himself chose his vanguard, Arrius the Pure, and Gilmik the Dwarf and their elite to go with him.

As they entered the cave, they lit torches, as to light the hollow place up. They stepped quietly, footsteps echoing for nearly a quarter of a minute. As the light from the entrance of the cave faded, another dimmer light appeared in front of them. Eventually, the tunnel led to a huge cavernous chamber.

Alaric and his followers stared up at the stalagtights in wonder, and at the strange ever lasting torches that hung on the walls. As they continued, the path split in two.

"Alaric, I will take my boys to the left. You and your Blood Elfs can take the right" Arrius spoke, his voice echoing.

"Very well, Arrius. I shall take the right. Be on your guard, and perhaps we shall meet somewhere in the middle"

The two parties split up, walking in opposite directions.

Alaric stared straight ahead in the dim light. He felt something now. Something…elusive…evasive. In the dim, a bright light in front of them exploded.

The ground split, and yellow boned skeleton archers rose slowly.

"To arms!" the Blood Elfs screamed.

"Black magic…" Alaric muttered. "Fight until the death warriors. We must reach those Artifacts in the central chamber!"

It didn't take long to dispatch the skeletons, but something was now stalking them in the shadows. Around every corner, something hid. The group, was now on its own, completely cut off from the outside. In front of the group, lay unknown trials of the Dungons of Stonetalon. Before them, lay the keepings of salvation, the Artifacts. But they could only be reached, by passing the evils, that lay in those caves…

(This was meant to be a _very _long chapter, but I decided to split it up into two bite sized pieces easy to read. The next chapter will be out by Friday or Saturday, so just remember to REVIEW people)


	12. Chapter 10: Secrets of Stonetalon

Chapter 10: Secrets of Stonetalon

(--Reviews wanted please)--

An hour after the entrance into Stonetalon Mountain…

"Stonetalon Dungeon is truly an amazing, and dark place" Alaric, Lord of the Blood Elves spoke to himself.

"Milord, the passage splits up ahead. Which way do we take?" an footman commented.

Alaric stared ahead at the split. The enormous cavern once again broke into two more passages. "We shall first take the right" he answered, unsure of what passage to enter, he left a provost guard to lead them back at the entrance of the tunnel.

Deeper they delved into the hollow mountain. It was quiet, and shadowy. Eventually, they came upon what they dubbed, the Empty Causeway.

"What is this place?" Dethal said in amazement. Before them, was the largest indoor space they had ever seen. A huge river of boiling magma flowed, whilst a bridge stretched across it. Across, on the other side, gigantic statues of past gods and heroes stood erect.

Upon a ledge in front of the bridge was a smaller stair case. Alaric, curious, proceeded up the stair case, thinking he could get a better view. "Dethal, Alleira, see this!" he shouted to two of his brethren below.

Dethal had come a long way with Alaric since the "Year of Chaos" and the fall of Quel'thalas. He ran up with vigor, his gold and red armor glinting in the dim everlasting torches. Alleira, another Elf from Quel'thalas had also fallen into his quest. She was agile, smart, and so fair. Since Eolas' failure in the Battle of Mulgore, they had become his two most trusted advisors.

"What is it Lord Alaric?" Alleira echoed running up the stair case.

"Fantastic is it not?" Alaric said, staring ahead in awe. A literally half kilometer deep and wide space was filled with books and tomes. It had hit them that this was once a gigantic library, housing ancient Night Elf histories. "Who in their right mind, even the Night Elves, after their magical purges, would leave all these tomes to turn to dust?"

"Perhaps the Kaldorei have forgotten the books, or perhaps they have been lost since the Sundering sire" Dethal suggested.

"Perhaps…We should take some of these with us. Maybe they could help us later" Alleira then said picking up one of the blue leather cover tomes.

"Wretches! Away from the Tomes of the Titans!" a voice bellowed. A gigantic thing emerged from the shadows in the distance. It was covered in a black robe, and donned deep black armor, yet it seemed to be ethereal. Where its head was supposed to be was a flowing blue energy. "I am the Oracle's Guardian of this place! You are invaders, and insurrectionists. This place holds a dark curse, so turn back now.

"I will not let a mongerer like whatever you are get in my way. This is salvation we are after, and you cannot steal that away from us. We have nothing to lose!" Alaric shouted back.

The Guardian lifted his glowing navy blue axe and swung it down on the Blood Elves. Alaric barely dodged the attack, strands of hair cut off.

"Asetha Barana!" he conjured. A sheet of flame enveloped the Guardian. Alleira let loose a blast of green energy that sped towards the Guardian that knocked off its helm. Then, together, all three of the Blood Elf's let loose a tidal wave of energy that smote the Guardian. The fight was short, but had drained a lot of energy. The remnants of the Guardian lay on the charred remains of books and the floor.

"Turn back now! There is an evil in this place, I was sent to protect those who tried to enter it. Turn back…now…" the Guardian stuttered.

"Old and wise fool. I will not stop. There is too much to lose" Alaric said sadly. And with that reply, Alaric threw down his rune sword on the Guardian's helm, shattering the ancient onyx metal. "I suggest we get a move on. Dethal, Alleria, return to the main group. I shall be with you momentarily" The two nodded and set back down the flight of stairs.

Alaric rummaged around in the wreckage of the Guardian, and found its battle axe. On large axe was enscribed a difficult language. Alaric only understood bits and pieces of it. It said something about 'The Power', and 'The Titans', and 'The Curse'. Nevertheless, he picked it up, and continued down back to his comrades.

With the huge axe slung over his shoulder, he led the group cautiously over a bridge that ran across a flowing river of searing magma. Again and again they passed more and more human skeletons. There were also Orc bones littered in the passage ways as well.

After more seemingly endless passageways and a surprise from enchanted Rock Golems, found itself in front of two massive doors that had been slightly opened. The gates, as Alaric concluded, led to the main chamber.

"It seems we are _not_ the first people to enter this cavern. The door has ben opened before us" Alleria spoke.

They were adorned with gold inscriptions of trees with pure silver leafs and a single sentence carved into it. Strange-Alaric recognized it as an archaic Night Elf form of written word.

"Whomever passes this door, shall be led to the Oracle's Chamber"

Alaric first passed into the room through the opened gates. The air was stale…old. In the middle of the perfectly geometric square room, was a statue of a Night Elf warrior sentinel on her tiger mount. It was covered with green moss and tangling vines. Then, its eyes lit with pink flourecence and a voice echoed.

"Whomever passes this door, shall be led to the Oracle's Chamber. The Heart of Azune has been returned, and the Key of the Guardian inserted. The path is open"

Alaric grunted in response to the strange echoing voice. He had heard of the ancient tales of Azune, who had lost her heart, never to have it returned to her living body.

"So the myths are true" Alaric said under his breath. "Let us proceed to the Chamber of the Oracle"

The Blood Elfs continued over the energy bridge and into a truly massive chamber. At the end of it was an empty throne, and to the sides cases and shelves, and sudden drop offs into the abyss.

After much searching of the shelves an cases that held much knowledge and many artifacts from a better time, Alaric found his prize.

He held up four shimmering glass vials. The vials themselves seemed to have a magical essence, and were softly glowing in the dim light of the Chamber.

"Behold Dethal, the prize of Stonetalon!" he exclaimed.

"Milord, what is it?" a Spell Breaker behind him queried.

"This, my brethren…These, are the Vials of Illidan, whom carried the Waters of Eternity to a new resting place on Mount Hyjal. His brave and glorious soul will live on forever, wherever he may be; dead, or alive somewhere. For this certain Night Elf is the one that against the will of the Druids preserved magic, in all its forms in these very vials. And so again they shall hold the Waters of Eternity. This time, for a greater purpose"

The speech and history of these mere glass containers had stunned them. The Blood Elfs then plundered the rest of the magical artifacts and tomes in the Chamber and then left it forever, never to return.

Climbing up the tunnel proved much harder than Alaric had thought. It took another two hours to clamber out of the pitch black tunnel covered in white dust and brown mud.

Immediately Alaric recognized Arrius walking towards him with something in his hand.

"Lord Alaric, hail! We weren't able to find a connecting passage in the tunnels. I lost a few men fighting off all sorts of strange creatures down there. When we forced our power upon a thunderlizard, it collapsed onto a pillar, and blocked our way from further advance"

"Don't worry about it Arrius. We weren't supposed to meet in the first place" The head Blood Elf replied coolly.

"Well, you may be pleased at this. It is the Lion Horn of Stormwind. I found this powerful artifact inside the cave. If the legends are true, it resurrects an army of those who died previously to fight beside whoever wields the horn. It is a powerful symbol of humanities better days" Arrius explained to Alaric the significance of the Horn.

Once again, the thinned ranks of the Expedition turned northwards, this time to last. Everyone knew in their hearts the greatest prize came close. The last full measure had begun. It was almost _their_ hour.


	13. Chapter 11: Fury's Calling

And without much further ado, Chapter 11! Yay, party! Anyway, I havn't really been able to write for quite a while now, between Christmas, Exams, a very nice vacation to Conneticut, and now more school work. Well, finally got this chapter done. Hope you enjoy and don't forget to REVIEW PLZ!

Chapter 11: Fury's Call

Ashenvale Forest, Kalimdor, 621 Years of Azeroth

The Expedition had finally come upon the forest of Ashenvale. The wood spread across the land like a gigantic, lush, green carpet, covering everything. For miles and miles around the forest roamed, uninterrupted. Nature's spirit filled this place. Immense flocks of birds rose out of the trees as the soldiers started to push through them.

Alaric had heard of this place in the stories the Elders told. The endless dark jungles eventually lead to the sacred Mountain of Hyjal.

As they passed through into the forests, all of the troops gasped in amazement at the beauty of the dark jungle. But it was not long before Alaric noticed something was wrong.

"Dethal, bring up the rear pickets. Group everybody as close together as possible" he ordered. Dethal looked at him with a puzzled face.

"We're not alone" Alaric whispered. The leaves above them rustled suddenly. To his right, a shadow darted between the enormous tree trunks. He put his hand on the hilt of his sword, and readied himself.

The remaining warriors of the Expedition formed small circles of warriors, a technique taught by the High Elves when fighting the hard to see Orcs in the forest in the Second War. Spear on the outside of the circle, arrow and sword in the center.

A slender womanly figure appeared out of the darkness in front of his formation.

"What is your intention in the _Ashenthalun_?" the dark figure spoke.

Alaric mounted his steed, and sat tall and shouted out in response "We come with peace on our side, and would like to extend it to you as well, ancient ones"

"Whom are you and your followers?" the Sentinel again demanded.

"My fellow brethren and I are of the High-Borne. Along with allies, we come seeking a certain…thing of great power" Alaric once again answered, dodging answers that led to the suspicion of their true intent.

"Where are you bound now High-Borne?"

"We first come with pilgrimage to the holy mountain, Hyjal. Then to depart near the Dark Shore"

An awkward science ensued.

"Listen young fool, no outsiders, no one, except the great Druids themselves are allowed to the peak of Mt. Hyjal. You shall not pass if that is your intent, then turn back now, before you reach the range of our bows" the Sentinels voice echoed.

"You misunderstand. We come not to harm your forests. We just wish free and safe passage to the Mountain for pilgrimage"

"You shall not come a step closer to Mount Hyjal. The demon terror runs deep, and the Druids still heal the lands. There is too much power on that mountain for Outlanders to claim as their own. Not a step further!"

"Our two people share a common blood, the same heritage. We both grew together in our race's infancy. Can you not allow your brothers from across the sea to at least glimpse the mountain?" Alaric said, trying to avoid a fight.

"If we engage these people, then we might be overpowered before we reach Mount Hyjal. Damn Night Elves! Ever do they bicker about power and the use of magic as evil-just as in the old days, when our people delved into the Well of Eternity, spreading magic throughout the world. They believed us to be demon worshipers. Hmph, I will show them the power of the High-Elves and _their _magic How dare them deny us our birthright?!" he thought enraged.

"You shan't stop our advance. With or without your permission. That mountain is our destination, and you shall endure the wrath of the Blood Elves if you stand in our way! It is for the good of the greater whole that we reach that mountain…and its energies"

"Energies?...The Waters of _Nordrassil_! Attack my sisters! They seek the powers of the Well! Destroy them now!" the Sentinel cried out.

A hail of arrows flew from all directions. Alaric summoned the Seal of Protection around him. As the luminescent energies flowed across his body, the arrows deflected harmlessly.

The other Blood Elves cast various spells or raised shields, just as Arrius's humans did to protect themselves. As the first volley of arrows lessened, a wave of tigress riders appeared out of the shadows. The Blood Elf, Human, and remaining dwarven forces lunged themselves into the fray.

The Expedition had drawn first blood with the Night Elves of the West.

"_Shana duranub_!" Alaric caught the same Sentinel, now he recognized her as a Preistess, riding on her white maned tiger, preparing a Searing arrow. The cloth she wore seemed of flowing silver itself, and the highly adorened headpiece she wore glistened and was slightly luminescent.

Alaric unsheathed his sword, and galloped towards her. Just before he was able to incapacitate her, she shot the fiery arrow. With a sickening crack, the wooden piece penetrated his armor at such close range, and came clean through his shoulder.

The pain caught Alaric off guard. He dropped off his mount…the world seemed in slow motion. Around him in the moon lit sky his warriors, moonlight glinting off their armor fought on, against the concealed enemy. With a thud, he landed on the ground, dirt and dust covered his face as he looked up. The white tiger's mouth hovered above his head just inches, dropping its salivation on his face.

"I am Ariel Darkmoon. Marshal Priestess of Ashenvale. I will not allow you passage. Withdraw your men before we are forced to destroy them all" The priestess ordered.

"I wished for peace between our peoples-between the Elven branches. But you would not have it. The blood of this conflict cannot be stained on me, but on you, and you alone priestess" Alaric replied in a pained voice, his face straining to hang onto dignity.

He glanced at his wounded shoulder, noticed the large amount of blood starting to pool beneath him, and the splintered bone that protruded from his shattered shoulder plate. With his good arm, he quickly grabbed the sword of a fallen footman and sliced at the tiger's foreleft leg. The tiger reeled backwards in shock at the sudden attack by the cornered, wounded animal. Alaric jumped up, pain now coursing through all his body and spied the wounded beast. He threw himself on it, knocked and knocked the priestess of with a fell kick. He reached his arm around the creatures neck, and with one pull, snapped its spine.

The tiger dropped to the ground as the priestess struggled to her feet. Alaric, only feet away from her, also got up from the now dead tiger. The priestess looked at her tiger with eternal sadness, which also infected him; the death of such a noble creature. But there was no time to think about animals. The priestess lunged toward him, a flint knife in her hand.

She swung it wildly around Alaric, as he dodged as best he could in his state. Just then, Dethal appeared behind her. He wrapped his blade around her throat.

"Move from your stance, and I shall cut your neck" he hissed.

The priestess looked down at the ground, defeated.

Alaric regained his balance and grabbed his wounded shoulder, trying to stuff it with cloth to stop the bleeding.

The priestess, in the flash of an eye grabbed Dethal's arm tightly and threw him over her, onto the ground.

"Son of a…!" Dethal cried.

The priestess dashed out toward the brush.

"Kill her! NOW!" Dethal screamed to the nearest footmen.

"No, leave her be. It seems everywhere we go, we make enemies. Heh…" Alaric said quietly, slumping againt the stump of a tree. "Bring me a priest, I require healing". Around him, the sounds of battle had subsided. "These Night Elfs are perfect warriors…Skilled in every aspect. I can only imagine what their men are like" he muttered to himself.

The preist, donned in his own blood red robes, arrived in a few minutes, after tending to other wounded from the gurrelia attack.

"Your wound is serious, though not life threatening. Praise the Light be, you shall yet live to see another sun with the healing my brothers and I can provide" the preist spoke as he examined the injury in Alaric's shoulder. "Though you may be out of battle for a while. Even though the power of the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics, you will require rest for natural healing" the priest then prescribed.

"Fine. I shall not ride forth into battle for the mean time" Alaric replied, still wincing from the pain. "But the columns must keep moving. These Night Elves will not stop their attacks. We will be harassed along the entire way"

Dethal stepped into the conversation. "Sire, who will lead in your stead?" he asked inquisitively.

"Dethal, I will not be completely out of action. Just within the…safe…confines of the center of our…force. I will expect you though, to head up the column. You are the next in the command chain, and the most knowledgeable of the plans, so you in turn can lead the army for now" Alaric said without much of a care. He had placed much confidence in Dethal since the demotion of Eolas. He still wondered whether Eolas was okay though. He had seen much in the Year of Chaos. He had seen the High Elven king cut down by ghouls, had seen his own family and lineage destroyed in a day, had even seen the Sunwell itself drained of its power. He and Alaric were some of the last warriors from the Battle of Silvermoon. Eolas had been increasingly…un-ambitions during the past three months though, climaxing with his monumental failure in the Battle of Mulgore.

The Expedition moved forth once again. Its smaller numbers made it more agile, and quick to action. Even so, there were no supply lines for the so called "Crusaders of Light" in Ashenvale. No supplies came from occupied Theramore. They were completely cut off from the outside world…engulfed in the deep, dark recesses of the forest.

The deep underbrush of the forest made it hard to move in formations, so eventually the order had broken down from battalions to small uncoordinated tangles of men.

The Expedition was constantly attacked from the shadows of the forest by either the natural creatures like the primitive furbolgs, or the dastardly Night Elves. The Elves of this forest though, were getting more confident in their attacks, like a creature slowly probing its prey for weaknesses.

The casualty lists had grown long as the slowly reached Alaric's stretcher. Frustration at the inability to strike at a shadowed enemy washed over him. As the Eastern World forces neared the base of Hyjal, a new and deadly force had thrown itself into the mix.

………………………………………………………………

Base of Mt. Hyjal, 621 Years of Azeroth

Barak Demonlasher emerged from the foliage. The scents of the forest rose from the damp, early morning ground. He scanned the world with his blind eyes spotting the movement within the holy forest. Though he may have been blind, nature allowed him to see through her eyes, the last gift of Alune to the Demon Hunters before she departed the Night Elves for the skies. The trees and brush seemed to be moving in a long, spread out line. Through the trees, and through the warped vision of the wisps of nature in the forest, he could make out the enemy; strange mix of Highborne, humans, and dwarves.

"So, the demon worshippers still try entry through our lands? The fools! They shall burn for this. Destroying what we have worked so hard to repair from their masters" he spat.

He pulled his muscular form up, and slid down from the rock he stood upon. The forest once again surrounded him. The wonderful feel of nature filling the air…The Marshal Priestess of Ashenvale, Ariel Darkmoon approached him in full battle robe.

"Shando Barak, what have you to order me? These-heathens have already burned two of our villages in the forest, and move irrevocably towards the Holy Mountain. I have unleashed all of the Sentinels in Ashenvale upon them, and still they do not deter" she spoke.

"Do not be hard on yourself Priestess. The forces patrolling Ashenvale are not what they used to be. Most of our people have relocated to Terdrassil, our new home. Though this is still our land, we could not protect it with entirety with the weakened forces that you have. Now tell me, what is our enemy's purpose?"

"Well, we have not discovered his purpose completely. We discovered upon our first meeting that they are led by one named Alaric'Quel, a High Elf. He seeks the Mountain Hyjal, and its energies from what I learned. Is it possible that the Waters of Eternity still lie deep within Mount Hyjals basin?"

"…Yes, I believe it is possible. The Druids did not return to Mount Hyjal after the invasion of the Burning Legion. Instead, they chose to let nature reclaim that land by itself. This, disgusting Highborne will not be allowed to make it to Hyjal. I will not allow it. I brought a large contingent of Sentinels and Druids with me from Teradrassil. Also Priestess-" he cut off waiting for her acknowledgement.

"Yes Shando Barak?"

"I sense something dark about these HighBorne. It seems as though they mix the energies of Light and Dark for their own uses. If it is so, it is a grave threat. Do you know what happened to the HighBorne when their lands were invaded?"

"No Shando Barak"

"They were destroyed. They were cut off from their magic, or so I heard, and have been using all sources, even Demon majiks, for their uses"

"If it is so, then all the more cause not to allow them to the Summit. Dark Majiks like those could unlock the doorway to the Twisting Nether once again!" Ariel cried out in fear and regalement.

"Yes, all the more reason to destroy them now, while they are unready. My contingent is coming up behind me as we speak. It is time to show the rest of this world not to tangle with the Night Elfs!"

……………………………………………………………………….

Ashenvale Forest, 621 Years of Azeroth, Late afternoon

"To arms!" the footman sergeant yelled again. "They approach once more!"

Alaric listened to the calls of war outside of his canvas tent. He couldn't stand it any more. "I will not sit here like a weakling. The wound is healed enough" he said to himself impatiently.

He stood up, placed his magic resistant robe over his head and body, and walked outside, with a considerable amount of pain still emanating from the shoulder.

Stepping outside, he saw a perfect picture of the power of Night Elves and their alliance with nature. The fight was a mess. Trapped in the forest and having to maneuver around trees and bushes, there was no semblance of command. It was an all out fight, just to kill whomever was wearing the badge of the Expedition.

Alaric, unsheathed his sword and staggered into the fray. The fight was bloody and brutal, but the Expedition had managed to hold back the sudden onslaught of the Night Elves.

The casualties had been heavy in that assault, and the lines had almost broken. The arrival of Alaric had boosted the moral of the men around him, seeing their leader fighting along side them. On the very edge of the fight, Dethal and Eolas had rallied retreating soldiers and reformed the line, and charged the enemy. The suddenness of that brutal, all out attack had shown the Expedition's leaders that a new Night Elf was in control of their army.

The Westerner had identified himself as Barak Deamonlasher, a demon hunter that was veteran to the first and second invasions of the Burning Legion. He was an master of warfare, and had even fought along side Furion Stormrage two years ago, in the much famed Battle of Mount Hyjal.

Alaric was well informed of the Night Elf's capabilities, strengths, and weaknesses by Bran, a dwarvish explorer. Bran had explored many lands in the past two years, ranging from Booty Bay, to Darkshore. The little dwarf was Muradin and Magni Bronzebeards's youngest brother, and had taken it upon himself to explore the world for the dwarfs. Alaric had finally tracked him down, about a year ago and was able to extract the journals of Bran's adventures in Kalimdor, however sketchy as they were.

Barak, the new Marshal of Ashenvale had surrounded him. Alaric knew it all too well. As his massive first attack had failed, he had made it upon himself to spread out the 'infadels' lines, and make an all out assault to perish them out of Alune's forests forever. And now Alaric, had devised a plan, to spearhead his way out of the jungle siege.

He had traveled to Dethal at the edge of the front lines where he was still constructing defences out of the local fauna.

"Dethal, thus far you have shown perfect obedience, discipline, and the ability to keep your head in combat and win. That is why I am handing over complete command of the…Crusade as some call it…to you" he said as he dismounted walking up to Dethal.

Dethal stared at him wide eyed, his long brows furrowed in distress. "Me? What? You're leaving?"

"Yes, Dethal, but this is only temporary. When the sun dawns, I shall set forth with my personal body guard to penetrate the enemies lines, hopefully in secret, and make it up the Staircase of Hyjal. You, shall remain here and command our remaining force until I return, hopefully by sunset tomorrow with the Waters of Eternity in Illidan's Vials"

"Milord, without you, the Blood Elves would have degenerated into an infighting group of mobs. We needed at our darkest hour, a leader to show us the light, and you have given us a cause; the cause for survival, revival, and redemption of our race. I am yours to command!" Dethal replied with a rush of pride for the Blood Elves racing through him.

"Then inspect the rest of the troops. The lines _have_ to hold. Lest we return to ruins that will end the Cause here in these dank jungles. _Lavaen tauras Quel'thalasen!_ (For the glory of Quel'thalas)"

"_En yemus High-Borne! _(In the name of the High-Borne!)" Dethal replied. He then turned back to inspecting the lines.

The rest of the night passed with sickening anxiety. Alaric organized his bodyguard and reported to the fore of the line. Under cover of the first balze of light, when their enemies eyes would still be adjusting, they set out. The first stretch of the short hike to the Stairs of Hyjal was short and no enemies came between them. Then, the fore scout spotted them; the Stairs of Hyjal. A long, ancient, winding staircase that went up the side of the mountain, where ancient Night Elves used to pay pilgrimage to Alune, the Moon Godess. Destiny was nearly at hand.

Bonus Profiles: The Brotherhood of Light's Clerics

The Brotherhood of Light's Clerics is a strict Elven community of priests established in the early Second War to aid wounded Elves on the battlefield. The leader of the group of Archmage Tanin Firestar assisted many of the wounded in the great battles of the Second War. In the Year of Chaos, their order was disbanded, the few of them hoping to survive to regroup with the surviving High Elves. The last hundred priests who survived the raping of Quel'thalas were able to secure dozens of valuable documents and historical scrolls and escaped into ruined Lordaeron. There, they fled from the onslaught of the Scourge, until they came upon the southern lands of Hillsbrad and Southshore that were still in Alliance possession. The last clerics rebuilt worked tirelessly to rebuild the once great order and tired to alleiviate the great suffering of fleeing Lordaeron citizens. Finally, in 621, when Alaric Faltron'Quel began recruiting and reuniting the broken and divided Blood Elves, the still sevearly thinned Brotherhood senced strange energies coming from far across the world. These turned out to be the energies of the Waters of Eternity, whom Alaric had also felt. Alaric, who had made it his goal to rebuild their once great nation recruited the Priests as his holy sight seers and healers into his 'Crusade'. The Priests have thus far served him unquestionably.


	14. Chapter 12: Turn of the Tide

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Chapter 12: Turn of the Tide

Base of Mt. Hyjal, Kalimdor, 621 Years of Azeroth

Barak had picked up the trail of the insurgents about half an hour ago. Somehow, they had made it past the front lines in secrecy. At first, they had climbed the Stairs of Hyjal, but then the ancient Stairs abruptly ended in ruin. Many centuries ago, a furbolg uprising had destroyed a long stretch of the Stairs, and they, like the other Night Elf ruins of old, were never repaired.

Nature, ever his ally, was once again aiding him in the battle against the traitorous High Borne. In the days long past, Ashara, queen of the Night Elves, and the highest in the hierarchy of their culture had delved into primitive magic. It had wrought ruin and death upon the lands of Kalimdor. After the long and bloody fight with the Burning Legion, whos path was first paved to the world by Ashara and her High Borne, nature herself helped the faithful to cast out the evils of magic. Those who did not follow, the remnants of the High Borne, were exiled.

"…And now they have returned for what they believed theirs all those millennia ago. And the chase is on!" Barak murmured quietly to himself. This chase reminded him of the warden Maiev. This warden was in special command of the prisoner Illidan.

Illidan had crimes in the first Legion's invasion that had cost him the trust of his people, and even his brother, the great Druid Furion Stormrage. He was to be locked up from the world to protect the future, and Maiev had finally failed, that one day. Illidan had ironically escaped during the second Invasion of the Burning Legion. Afterwards, he had raised his own army of strange sea creatures that wreaked havoc on the coast settlements. Maiev had never given up chasing Illidan, until the end; though her end was not known to the Night Elves. She had chased him from world to world, to no avail. After many years of no sight of her or her followers, the Night Elves had abandoned her for dead.

"Shando Barak, we have spotted the insurgents" a female voice spoke.

"Yes, I already know where they are" he replied, examining the ground. Nature again had helped him, giving him the sight of their still heated footprints.

He turned back to the Sentinel, said "Double out pace. We have to reach them before they arrive at the summit!"

With that, his hunting pack quickened their speed. The ancient unhallowed grass did not bend and smash under their weight, for nature was on their side, and helping them run faster.

Near the Summit of Mt. Hyjal, Kalimdor

Something was giving speed to these Night Elves. They had appeared out of nowhere, hot on their trail. Alaric had even posted rear guards, to hold them off for a little while longer.

He had taken the greatest mages of the Brotherhood for the ritual that had to be made before they could raise the precious Waters. They travleled with him in the fore as a vanguard.

"We are almost there. The power is so close. I can feel it eminating…it is amazing. The sheer content of magic in that little volumn liquid is enough to top a hundred Sunwells-we must have it. And we must protect the excavation team, lest we resort to digging feet of dirt with bare hands"

The sun was starting to arc lower in the sky, and one of the two moons had already come up. Around him, his exhausted soldiers panted as they continued the long climb up slope. They had passed the remains of a human encampment, the same one used by Jaina Proudmoore in the Battle of Mt. Hyjal. It was there the seeds of hope were planted for her people, and now Alaric would plant the seeds of hope for his.

Around him, birds chirped, and other animals of the wonderful forest roamed. Soon enough, they came upon twisted mass of buildings made of bone, tanned leather, and wood.

"This was the Orc base of Thrall Lord Alaric" a Blood Elf behind him spoke.

"Yes, let us hope that we are as fortunate this day as they were that day" he replied curtly.

With the quick stop at a nearby river to fetch water, they again continued. The slope was now growing harsher, steeper. The grass was disappearing, and rocks were replacing it.

Many in his group were too tired to go on. He left the stragglers behind at the river stop, enough to possibly hold off the advance of Barak and his lackeys long enough.

More time passed, and the climbing had taken a toll on all of them. The sun was now on the horizon, its last rays puncturing the clouds, turning all to glorious colors. And as Alaric gazed at the sun, he noticed that the hill stopped just ahead.

A power lay ahead. Ancient, wondrous, amazing…infinite energy, something overwhelming…

He felt completely revitalized, as if for the first time in his many years, that he had opened his eyes to a greater purpose. He felt better than when there was the Sunwell, more alive, and alert.

"Yes, the power of the High Borne is returning! With this, our race will be great again, and our addiction to magic shall never bother us again! And to you Arthas…I will destroy you with my own hands. I will return to Lordaeron, raise armies, and fleets! I will sail under the green leaf banner of Quel'thalas once more, and disembark on the icy shores of Northrend. There, we shall siege you in your tower, and cast your so called invincible spirit into the twisting nether, forever to be tormented by demons, poking and prodding you with the worst tortures ever devised!"

He looked around, at his remaining comrades. There was a change in their eyes. They were brighter, more powerful. A energy surrounded them, like a figure in the sillout of the sun.

He ran faster now, excitement boiling in him. Upon reaching the brink, he looked down. The others ran as well, and spread out upon the edge as well.

Before them, was a vast, two mile wide basin, in the top of the mountain. The basin was filled with lush, green, pine trees. And in the center, was a great barren. A void among the trees, a miniature desert, if not for a single pinprick of light poking through the surface.

"I bet no one has been here since the Battle three years ago" a Blood Elf spoke. "Otherwise, would they have not taken this prize, or hidden it?"

"It matters not brothers. This is our destiny, and now we take what is in our grasp!" he yelled out. A cheer erupted from the dozen or so men behind him.

Just then, a dark figure, shouted out. He was surrounded by others, Druids that wore fur and feathers.

"Do you hear me High Borne?! I am Barak Demonlasher, and I have come to end this madness. I have learned, from nature herself of your intent and travels. It is the end for you and your little adventure"

Alaric, energized by the nearby magics stood tall and defiantly, shouted "If you want to stop us Demon Hunter, come and get us!"

The showdown had begun.

Barak and his Druids charged forth, conjuring and casting spells as they progressed. Alaric and his Blood Elves did likewise.

On the crest of the basin, the sun setting, the two ideals and cultures of East and West, High Elf and Night Elf, once brothers, clashed.

The melee surrounded him, yet all his intent was focused upon the tall figure in front of him. He lifted his blade, swung it at the Demon Hunter who parried. Barak then brought his arm scythes upon Alaric. Sword and Scythe met in a shower of sparks.

The two were inches apart from another, an epic struggle between their strengths and wills. As their followers massacred each other, these two vied for superiority.

"I told Stormrage ages ago we should have punished your people for _still _following magic, even after the Sundering and Invasion" he snarled.

Alaric made no reply, just fueled his anger directly at the creature infront of him. His sword scrapped violently against Barak's scythe, and at the last moment, he threw himself downward and his blade upward cutting at Barak's cheek. Barak then threw up one of his scythes at Alaric's sword, knocking him off balance. It was a quick moment in which Barak had gained the advantage, and he pressed it.

The scythe was mere centimeters from his neck as Alaric dropped to the ground and kicked out at the back of Barak's legs causing the Demon Hunter to also lose balance.

A small pause in the fighting…the two looked at each other with grim determination, a final message of their wills. They stood up, and ran at each other, blades meeting in mid air, more sparks flying.

Alaric twirled around, freeing himself of the deadlock again, and landed his sword directly on Barak's throat. The world stood still at that moment.

"It ends here" Barak whispered harshly "I know of your journey, across the Great Sea, and through the peaceful humans to the south, and the trolls and orcs. The rampage stops now"

"You are a fool to believe you can stop me" Alaric replied back this time, eyes blazing.

He pressed his blade a little more, enough to just cut the skin on Barak's neck.

"Remember that mark. It is the one you received the day you tried to stop the Blood Elves" he then said triumphantly. Alaric then moved closer towards Barak, and with a quick motion of his heavy gauntlet, landed a blow on the elder's skull. "And that headache you get when you wake up, that's from when you tried to stop _me_" he then said smiling.

The fray had calmed, and few of his followers remained. There were now only eight of the initial thirty or so friendlies who stood. The bodies of his comrades and Night Elves littered the crest of the basin.

"Come now High Borne, redemption is within hands grasp!"

The group rushed down the sloping basin into a lush forest. All of them marveled at the nature that had grown here in but two years. Tall spires of pines and spruces climbed into the sky, eventually blotting out the remaining sunlight. Fueled by the reanimated spirit and vigor in them, the remaining Blood Elf mages continued until the forest died away, slowly but surely.

And there stood, the enormous stump of a tree. The sheer size of the stump caused complete awe. The…thing…hundreds of feet across lay directly on top of their objective.

"This is it! This is the place! We must set a ritual circle here, now! Before more Night Elves reach us!"

The mages fanned out into a circle, and Alaric took to the middle of it. This was the moment that he had waited for since he first felt the echo's of the Water's power so many months ago. Was it months? It felt like an eternity.

And so it had begun. He raised his hands to the air, the last glints of sun warming his body. He focused his mind on one thing, raising the Water's from their resting place. As he did so, the other mages did the same.

And in that time, the world stood silent, reverent to the event just about to happen. A power countless millennia old was about to be unmasked from its resting place in the earth.

A chant in High-Elven began. It was geomancy that the Elves were using here. This tactic was taught to the humans 3,000 years ago in Arathor, the ancient human nation, in return for help against the invading Trolls. Those magics had helped bring about a new era in Elven history, and were again about to do so.

"Loth es sran! Loth es sran! Ton yelesan vassach! Ton yelesan vassach!" the chant continued. And at that very moment, seconds into the chant, the supreme magic of those beings melded together into an energy ball, small and powerful.

The chant directed the energy ball towards Nordrassil's stump, where it then hovered.

Alaric then opened his eyes, to witness this most historic event.

"Now, it begins!" he thought to himself. The ball dropped, and plummeted into the tree, giant wooden splinters flying almost to the crest of the basin.

Then, the ground under them started to move. Tremors, small at first, then intensified in such time and magnitude not even the Elves predicted their spell to be such a success. They then hugged the ground and prepared themselves for the final stages of the magic's work.

A final, cracking noise, so loud that the Elves were temporarily deafened, emanated from the remains of Nordrassil. Miles away, even to Darkshore, on the westernmost coast of Kalimdor, the noise was heard. The mountain literally split open at the top, just where Nordrassil and the miniature desert were.

Then, in awe, Alaric and the leading of the Brotherhood then watched, as pure white light filled the air. The clouds were pushed back, and the light engulfed the entire mountain.

It took an eternity, or really seconds, for the light to subside. A strange feeling was brewing inside of him…doubt "Did the spell work? Or did we just destroy our last hope?" Alaric though.

"Look! The Waters of Eternity!" a one of the Elf mages cried out, slowly standing up.

And there, where Nordrassil had stood, and the small one tenth of a mile miniature desert had lay, a column of purplish, glistening, glowing, water exploded like a geyser. Tears came to Alaric's eyes. He lay there on the ground, in reverence to the greatest moment of his peoples history. Their ultimate redemption and salvation…

………………………………………………………

It had taken nearly an hour and a half for the geyser to stop spurting. And when it did, it left a very small lake, or more of a large puddle, in its place. The water, though it seemed little, seemed tremendously more powerful than the Sunwell.

"What will we call this day milord? The Day of Alaric'Quel?" A Blood Elf mused.

"Very funny, though I am not in this for the glory of it. We shall have no official praising for this day, just the everlasting memory that this day, these soldiers and allies…we unleashed a power waiting for us, for its destiny. But no, this war is not over mage. It has just begun. Now let us collect the Waters in the Vials of Illidan and be gone from Kalimdor forever. We have caused enough suffering in this land"

They passed the vials around, four per mage. The large vials filled with ease, and did not crack or corrupt under the extreme influence of the Water's magic. The bristling purple water would return with them to the east.

And so they group left the mountain. That night, the Night Elves moved the entirety of their forces onto the mountain, to protect what waters were left, but what Outsiders had come for they had already received. More than half of the waters now lay in their possession.

The Expedition, Crusade, or whatever else its followers had called it had in that moment completed its goal, and now abandoned the field to Barak's forces.

They marched west, to the boarders of the sea and land, towards the Darkshore and the Night Elf village of Aburdine. Needless to say, they were pursued by Barak's forces. After skirmishing and a quick decisive battle in the Night Elves favor north of Ameth Aran above Ashenvale, Alaric made the self crushing decision to leave nearly five hundred men behind as a sacrifice to buy time. The last of the Expedition then limped on to the outskirts of Aburdine. The Night Elves in the city had no time to take up arms against the Expedition for they stormed into the city without warning.

No innocents were killed, but there, on the shores of Aburdine, the Blood Elf leader Alaric'Quel stared out into the vast ocean. His men were passing onto the stolen boats with the valuables collected along the journey. Eventually, only one ship remained, and the last of the Expedition boarded, with Alaric. They left the shores of Kalimdor behind, perhaps forever, and now looked to their own shores. The coasts of Lordaeron.

………………………………………………………

It was night. They had left Aburdine early that day, and Alaric now stood at the bow of the jacked vessel. Underneath, the soldiers, the average footman, knight, spell breaker, and mage, slept.

Suddenly, a hand patted him on the back. Alaric turned to see Dethal holding out his hand.

Alaric shook it quickly and starred out at the ocean again.

"Congradulations Lord Quel, you have won" he said in a happy, yet quiet tone.

"No, we have just begun" he replied shortly, his mind somewhere else"

"What are you doing milord, if I may ask?" Dethal pushed inquisitively.

"Planning" was the only word that passed from Alaric's mouth.

"Planning what milord?" Dethal then said, set aback by the sheer thought of planning something at such a moment of victory as this.

"For the war. Dethal. We will have to be the vanguard to carry it to all, on all fronts. Do not think this is a victory Dethal. Yes it is a good thing, but I fear the true test still lies ahead. We have fought the first battle of this War of the Ruins. May the Light carry us" he ended. Dethal stood beside him for a moment, looked down and pondered at that thought. Slowly he turned, and headed for bed.

At the bow of that boat, Alaric Faltron'Quel, lone survivor of the ravaged royal Quel'thalas family, stood erect, mind focused on the reconquest of the world and the turning of the tide. The War of the Ruins, had just begun…

Summery of the Crusade of Light

In late spring of the year 621, Alaric'Quel, a High Elf believed to be the last of the Sunstrider Dynasty relation felt a sudden spike in the world's energy. After many months of research in Dalaran and the records saved by the still missing Prince Kael'thas he had arrived at the correct assumption that this was the power of the Waters of Eternity, buried deep within Mt. Hyjal. Alaric went missing for several more months, hence his whereabouts were unknown for that select time. After resurfacing in Stromguard, he sought out the employment of the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics to solidify his theories. Upon approval Alaric decided to put together an Expedition to retrieve the Waters.

After bringing the Brotherhood into his fold, he then sought to reunite the broken and scattered Blood Elf pockets of resistance in the Plaugelands. After a short campaign of reunification, he had formed the nucleus of his 'Crusade'. He then traveled to ruins of Dalaran, where he had heard of the Grand Marshal of Alliance forces had just arrived from stunning defeat in the north. The Marshal, whom had lost hope in the his superiors way of handling the war, transferred nearly a fifth of his troops to Alaric's command. Now, at its greatest height, the Expedition had almost 9,000 soldiers.

Traveling next to Kul Tiras, the last of the Grand Marshal's orders was handed to the shipwrights of the nation. It called for an enormous fleet to sail for the army within two days. The preparations were completed, and the Expedition sailed.

After nearly a month on the water, the Expedition arrived on their first stop in Kalimdor; the peaceful human refuge of Theramore Harbor. Alaric quickly orchestrated a coup in the city, bringing it under his control. After creating his base of supplies, set north with his private army. Upon reaching the Duswallow Marshes and Durotan, home of the new Horde, Alaric split his forces in two. Sending the larger group to draw out the armies of the Horde, Alaric, and a smaller army of a thousand stayed behind in hiding, waiting for the main forces of the Horde to be drawn out.

The Battle of Mulgore Plains then commenced, leading to a devastating bloodbath that continued for two days. Meanwhile, Alaric's force was able to infiltrate into the heartland of the Horde, and burn its greatest city, Orgrimmar. With the Horde licking its wounds, the two groups reunited and continued northward to Stonetalon Mountains.

There, they encountered Arrius the Pure, a paladin and his small pack of men trapped for nearly three years. Adding the paladin's group to his own, Alaric travled deep in the recesses of Stonetalon Peak. He emerged nearly a day later with 'something to contain the prize' later identified as the sacred Vials of Illidan.

Then again traveling north, the Expedition encountered the reclusive and secretive Night Elves. With its now 4,000 numbered troops, the Expedition limped along into the forest of Ashenvale. Several engagements occurred with the Night Elves, yet none great enough to persuade the Expedition from its course. Upon finally reaching Mt. Hyjal, one final battle took place, where Alaric and several of the Brotherhood snuck behind the front lines and onto the mountain. After a duel with Barak Demonlasher, the Night Elf leader, he and his fellow High Elven preists released the Waters of Eternity. Capturing the presious Waters, they then abandoned the field.

A desperate retreat then insuded. The Expedition, now weakned almost to the point of collapse, could not hope the fight back against the increasing numbers of the Night Elves. Upon reaching the dark shores of Aburdine, they stole several hundred Night Elf boats, and continued back on their way home. A new era had begun. This era would be bloodied by a war that would mark its beginnings…


	15. Chapter 13: War of the Ruins

(get ready for some heavy reading guys. The next couple of chapters are going to be pretty long. Don't forget to review!)

Chapter 13: War of the Ruins

Just off the coast of southern Lordaeron

"Land ho!" the cry echoed out across the Expedition flotilla. Dethal spotted dark objects that loomed on the horizon. The sturdy Night Elf boats had hosted them through the worst weather over the Sea. Thunderous skies, torrential downpour, and gigantic waves that nearly crushed the ships. Yet the Night Elves prowess and cunning in their ship designs had saved them the trouble of lost ships as they had had on their first trip to Kalimdor.

Finally, the Expedition was coming home, yet to Dethal, it felt only as if they were running from one fight to another. The lowers believed there would be fanfare in their arrival, yet Alaric had his own plans.

"We are a catalyst to this coming war. The world is weak, we will force it to contend to the situation these days" he murmered, quietly repeating Alaric's bold words at the Leiutentants meeting yesterday.

With the Waters securely cased below the deck of the flagship, there was really nothing to do but ready for the landing. As time passed, the shoreline continued into view.

He felt sickened by the sight of the Plaugelands again. Dark, low clouds loomed above the land, yet no birds sang for their arrival.

"There was too much death" Dethal said slowly. He looked around, noticing the other eyes that manned the boats looking at the charred clump of soil that used to be home to the greatest shining peaks of civilization. The land was black, dry, dead. Just beyond the blackened grains of sand that lay on the beachhead lay the shell of a town. Burned skeletons of buildings swayed in the silent ghostlike wind.

With the sun almost set, an eerie green light permeated the clouds. Suddenly Dethal missed the rich, wild air of Kalimdor.

"If we could have built there, we would have prospered" again he talked to himself. The boats were close to shore now, only a hundred or so feet off. It begun to precipitate ice cold rain from the darkness above; at first a trickle, then larger, and more in quantity.

"Damn miserable day its going to be" amongst the numerous shouts and orders, Dethal singled that one out as almost funny.

"First wave to the boats!" the cry echoed amongst the ships. A captain walked amongst the rail of the capital vessel, spewing orders and commands 'Keep the order' 'Fill in the gaps'. Dethal peered over the edge of the boat to see smaller canoe like landing craft being lowered from the upper decks. Across the plane, he saw the same activity was being repeated across the dozens of boats. A flurry of activity had swamped the main deck as Elves, Men, and even the remaining Dwarves all gathered at the barrow rails where the companies were organizing for landing.

"How go the landing operations?" a powerful voice behind him spoke. He turned to see Alaric, donned in full, and strangely enough, golden, silver and green of a High Elf Ranger-general, not the red and black of a Blood Elf regular.

Alaric read the confusment on Dethal's face "We are done mourning. Best look best when we take back our property" he said smiling, another strange thing he rarely did.

Dethal, still confused, continued with his report "Uh…yes lord. The boarding of the smaller craft goes well. The boarding is organized and the men eager. The first wave has already set" he said pointing to a mass of smaller wooden vessels rowing slowly towards the shoreline on the choppy water.

"Good, but before we can bring up the heavier equipment, we must make sure that the beach is completely secure. I want no slipups and no surprises" Alaric instructed reverently as Dethal nodded.

Plumes of dust rose somewhere beyond the town. Alaric, noticing as well spoke.

"That-could be a problem"

………………………………………….

Stormwind Keep, Capital of Azeroth, January 622 Years of Azeroth

"Are you sure?" Varian Wrynn spoke. His body felt numb as the news reached him.

"Yes my King. I saw it myself. Southshore is in the hands of the Scourge"

"Light help us" he said, breathing heavily. "How many?" he then said, his voice only just above a whisper.

"Nearly all of them sir. 11,000 regulars gone from the ranks. The other 4,000 have scattered into the countryside. The band I lead out received no word from Grand Marshal Anduin Praeton. The Army just" the man searched for the right words "disintegrated. It was a slaughter…" the grim, hard face of the messenger told no lies.

He had just been informed, the grand reorganized First Army of the Alliance of Azeroth, had just been obliterated, its general missing. The last standing bastion of Lordaeronian royal power in Southshore was now missing as well. The port city of Southshore was critical to the war effort, and may have crippled the plans he and the realms greatest knight, Duke Winfield who stood beside his throne had conceived.

The Duke was said to have the blood of the Arathi in his veins, inherited from his mother, just as the great Sir Anduin Lothar. But not all believed his outrages claims. If indeed he did have Arathi blood, he might be entitled to be the next in crown, and not Varian's young son Anduin Wrynn. The possibilities of the future of the crown Varian kept out of his head to focus on the debacle that lay before him.

"How was the Scourge able to penetrate so deeply behind the front lines?" another in the chamber, this one a general, asked in a stunned tone.

"It doesn't matter. What matters is how to take back Southshore. It is a focal point of trade between Dun Morogh, the Arathi Highlands, Silverpine, and whats left of the Hillsbrad Foothills" Duke Winfield angrily said, his fist curling into a ball. "And yet we cannot despair. The 3rd and 5th Armies are small, yes, still recruiting, but they can unite and carry us into battle again. We aren't out of the fight yet King"

"Yes," Varian said, pondering the though. He looked over at a piece of parchment that lay on a table. He stood up slowly, bones creaking in old age, and presented himself before the table. On it was etched a intricate map of northern Azeroth, Dun Morogh, and southern Lordaeron. "Uniting the two armies would leave us vunerable-very vunerable. But I see no other choices. Duke Winfield, you will travel to Stromguard Keep and unite the 3rd and 5th. Try to rally the remnants of Praeton's army, then march east. Keep good contact with me, for I will want to know your status along the entire march"

"Yes King Wrynn" Winfield said kneeling to Varian.

"Oh, and one more thing Duke" he continued. The Duke looked to him. "This is a forced march. No mistakes. We can't afford them. Now go, and Light be with you!"

The Duke smiled, that youthful smile, and rushed off to his stead which lay outside in the royal stables.

With the Duke gone, Wrynn waved for all to leave the room.

After the generals and advisors had filed out and with a sigh, he hobbled slowly to the table again. Across the vast table were scattered letters from ambassadors, foolish civilian requests, plans, troop movement reports, casualty lists, and a single candle that lit it all in a dull yellow light.

Sadness filled his heart as he looked to a map of the continents of Azeroth and Lordaeron. "This world has become a living nightmare. I believed that I, a single man, could change the fate of our world. Foolish I was" he scanned the verdant green lands of Azeroth, scrolled his eyes over to the Barren Lands to the east, and finally to the north where the capital of Lordaeron lay in ruins. He then traced three distinct lines across the map.

"The Scourge is massing in numbers they have not since the last Purge. We barely have enough strength to hold the lines where they are now…hmm…" he thought.

Just last week an enormous fleet that hosted the 2nd and 4th Alliance armies were sent off from Crestfall by direct order of the combined Alliance leadership. Repeated requests for help from human colonies on the Kalimdor coast had confirmed the Alliance's fears. That the continent of Kalimdor was no longer ripe for conquest and the transplanting of population. Apart from the strongest colony on the coast, Theramore, and whatever mysterious holdings the enigmatic Night Elves had, it was ruled by the new Horde. And so the nations of the Alliance had raised their armies and sent them off blindly to an uncharted land, almost completely surrounded by the fog of mystery.

And so, King of Stormwind sat on his high throne, endlessly debating with himself of their next move in a never ending war until sometime that night.

He had lost track of time. Had fallen asleep while tracing lines on them map until sometime near four past midnight. Suddenly, a massive gust of wind blew open the throne doors that woke Varian with a fright. White hot glowing runes arranged in a circle appeared on the reflecting marble floor.

But it was no magic he had seen before. The runes now started to spin, and again the wind picked up. The maps and pieces of parchment were blown across the room, the pillars containing the entire histories of the nation shook. And then, a blinding light pierced the night sky.

"Damned wizards playing with magic again! How many times must I tell them _not in the city_!" he thought quickly.

The light subsided, leaving a glowing, luminescent figure standing in the middle of the mysterious, still hot energy runes. The figure itself seemed to be made of pure moonlight, and at his side was a bone white staff seemingly made out of polished stone. The light slowly faded away from the figure to reveal an old man, frail, yet majestic, strong, and direct.

"Greetings King Varian Wyrnn. I, am Kelen the Lightkeeper. I have come to you now, at your darkest hour. I come to uphold the prophecy made so long ago. It is in my trust by the Guardians of Tirisfal to shepherd the peoples of the free lands of Azeroth by endowing them with the power that once was held by the ancients that this world was born from"

Varian, stunned, sat for a moment. He blinked his eyes, still watering from the explosion of light.

"What is it you have come to tell us? If you have something, say it now and to me"

"Indeed King. I have many things to tell you. There is one hope for your people. You must ally with the free peoples of this earth, all of them to survive the coming storm"

"What is your meaning?" the King asked, still in shock from the sudden arrival of the stranger.

The old man seemed to sag, and sighed. "The Orcs, Night Elves, Ogers…all of them. You-" he was suddenly cut off by the slamming fist of Varian.

"I lost my firstborn and second to the Orcs in the Second War. The savages will never understand a cause. All they are is chaos. And that is the same for their supposed allies as well" rebuked in anger.

"King-I have come to warn you of the impending danger. Not long ago, a messenger such as I stood in front of King Terenas of Lordaeron. He warned him of the Burning Legion and the Undead Scourge, and yet to no avail. Terenas listened not. He foolishly ignored the messenger and paid dearly for his crime. I, like that messenger am one who is stained with a past of bloodshed and evil, yet I have returned to redeem myself. I come to warn you; the fury of evil you are about to encounter is not just that of the Scourge. Oh no! It goes far deeper than that. The evil which is about to decend upon your world is different than one you have ever encountered"

"This is foolishness! Begone from my court!" the King boomed.

"The forces of darkness have taken themselves a tool. That tool is the Litch King. Sargeras did not turn evil on his own. The Dark Titan was a convert; an agent of light infected by the darkness that lives in the far recesses of the Twisting Nether. Long ago, a war occurred between Light and Dark. The Light prevailed, yet the nameless evil lived on in the corners of the universe; a cancer waiting for its chance to attack. Sargeras was instructed to destroy that of what the Titans created. And so he in turn created the Burning Legion, which is now effectively destroyed. Yet the Scourge-the creation of the Legion-the last power of that nameless evil in the void still lives on. They will use the carnage of the Scourge to destroy Azeroth, jewel of the Light"

"What is it you come to tell me?" Varian asked, now willing to obey.

"Thank you for listening King. Now I shall share my knowlage, for you shall need it in this new war"

………………………………………

"It has already begun" Alaric said. He looked from the high rock he stood upon as the army of the dead besieged the walled fortress city of Stromguard. A vast dark cloud of skeletons, beasts, and damned men stood before the city which was engulfed by flames. From this distance, Alaric could see the defenders; few, yet brave and still fighting the enemy not yet upon their walls.

"We expected them to arrive here hours after us! How did they reach the city? They travel at an ungodly pace" Dethal implied, staring out in awe at the size of the Undead army.

"This is no regular force of Undead beasts. This is something I have not seen in my time fighting the Scourge. Something dark is fueling their rage. Many are their number, yet we must still ride to the aid of Stromguard" Alaric said. Just a few hundred yards behind him the former Expedition lay. The four thousand battle readied troops were aligned with the battle occurring below, prepared to pounce upon the Undead at any moment.

Alaric looked away from the vast pillars of smoke and turned towards his commanders; Dethal, Arrius, Gimlik, and now Eolas, promoted yet again back to the command. "We must ride fast and hard. Cavalry in the front; Arrius, you have that charge. Lead you men straight into the enemy flank. Get as close to the city as you can. Create a path for the soldiers, commanded by Gimlik. Gimlik, take the footmen in a long wide arc, close in on the Scourge. By this time they will be in disarray. Eolas and Dethal will then bring in the spell casters, and destroy the remnants of the enemy. Am I understood?" Alaric concluded.

All four of the commanders, human, dwarf, and two Elf nodded in unison. He quickly prayed to the Light as he returned to his steed. He would be spear heading the enemy flank with Arrius and the elite knights.

Sweat trickled down his face and found its way somehow into his armor. At a slow trot, the cavalry moved up the hill to the crest, where they beheld in all its dark glory the army of the scourge; thousands upon thousands of them.

"Now we shall see the might of the Light" Alaric said again, heart pounding. He looked over at Arrius and nodded. Arrius pulled his armor plated hand in the air, and waved it. Horns sounded, and the charge began.

For a moment, it seemed all eyes were on them; the sneak attack that had come from nowhere. The battle stood still below, watching the charge of seven hundred plate and chain mailed knights. Battle cries pierced the blood red sun. Banners flapped wildly.

All to soon the glorious moment was over, and the killing was about to begin. Alaric layed his lance down towards the enemy, and felt it vibrate as the first enemy, a necromancer, was impaled by its blow. More were trampled under his horses hooves. Alaric looked over at the other human knights, hundreds of them surrounding him, also with their lance down trampling the Scourge with childish delight.

Finally after a minute that seemed like eternity, the horns sounded again, and Alaric looked back to see the footmen charging at the flank of the Undead. Looking again to his side where now knights began to fall, Alaric saw that the necromancers that controlled this army were now confused and losing control over their minions who were now destroying each other.

Suddenly, a spear shot through his horses head, blood spraying across Alaric's High-Elf armor. The horse fell to the ground with a thud, throwing Alaric off its back and into the middle of a circle of ghouls and zombies.

He unsheathed his sword, and as the ghouls ran towards him, he crushed ones half showing skull open. Yet too many there were. Again and again he slashed and blocked, yet eventually one grabbed hold of his chest plate and ripped it off. An abomination to his right suddenly picked him up, and threw him to the ground, shattering his sword. Ingulfed in confusion, Alaric slowly tried to get up, the breath knocked out of him. To his right, an undead nerubian spider lifted its head in preparation to launch its spiderlings at his bare chest when it collapsed. Behind it, he saw the grinning face of a footman whose sword protruded from the massive spiders abdomen. Now, looking behind him, two thousand footmen arrayed with all types of weaponry from rusted swords to broken axes slammed right into the flank of the enemy.

The carnage and melee continued for more minutes, until the spell casters arrived using their mass teleports. Flame strikes and conjured blizzards absolutely pulverized the abominations, skeletons and other beasts of the Undead.

Even though it may have been surprised, it had to be utterly destroyed, for the minions of the damned fought to the death, causing more casualties.

Looking upon the field of battle, Alaric though "Light be praised. We have fought the first battle of this war with complete success. Many of us have fallen today, yet a nation we have saved"

With the bodies of his comrades and enemy strewn about him, Alaric looked up at the massive gates of Stromguard. Burned and charred in some places, the gates nevertheless still stood defiant. Alaric picked up his broken sword and entered the city of Stromguard; the first battle of the war was over, yet the dark clouds now overhead foreshadowed the trials of the war to come.

(Well guys, what did you think about that chapter? Soon, the sinister motive behind the Scourge's new invasion will be revealed in the next chapter. Read, **_review_**, enjoy!)


	16. Chapter 14: Reaping the Whirlwind

(Same message as always guys. Read, Review, and Enjoy)

Chapter 14: Reaping the Whirlwind

Stromguard City, Arathi Highlands in Central Lordaeron, 622 Years of Azeroth

In the very center of the human nation of Stromguard lay the fortress city of Stromguard. The city was the key focal point for the entire history of the country, seeing as though the greater majority of the population lived either inside its walls, or in the surrounding valleys. Stromguard used to be a feudal society ruled by Barons and Dukes, but since the War of Attrition with Dalaran centuries ago, the King had taken his rightful place at the helm of a country with now a powerful army. Since that war, Stromguard had always relied heavily on its military power, and had one of the largest armies and greatest fortifications in Azeroth, including the amazing designs of the fortress capital.

"Where is the Elf?" old Thoras Trollbane inquired.

"He is being escorted through the battle strewn streets milord. Many men fell today, and many buildings as well. The debris from the catapults blocked many a road this day. Yet, he should be here soon" the King's advisor voiced.

The King squinted in pain as the Healer plucked an arrow from his armor. He was in the Royal Houses of Healing. Upon the walls he had commanded the battlements and turrets on the walls himself, inspiring the troops. And just at the moment he saw that glorious cavalry charge, an Undead arrow hit him in the chest plate. Luckily though, it did not pierce all the way, only partially wounding the flesh.

"You should be fine now King. Since the priests are healing others more wounded than yourself, I advise you stay put for the time being" the Healer advised.

"Bah! I shall not sit idle while the Undead gather their forces for another attack. Let them come, and we shall beat them back again!" he said, thirsting for battle. And with that he stormed out of the healing chamber and out onto the ramp that led to the Keep's wall. He looked out upon the open fields of the Arathi Highland where the blood from living and the rotting innards of the Undead lay strewn across the battlefield. His archers had done their job, destroying many of the Litch King's minions before they could ever reach the outer walls.

His advisor approached from behind. "King Trollbane, we have suffered moderate losses. The wall was breached only in two places. Yet the city is a disaster zone. Many tall structures were felled by the Undead's catapults and meat wagons"

"Yes, well it is not buildings that worry me. How is the moral of the troops?" he asked. The meat wagons had dropped many corpses of the villagers caught outside the walls of the city upon the simple people who had taken refuge inside the walls.

"King Thoras Trollbane of Stromguard, may I present to you, Lord Alaric'Quel of Quel'thalas" a footman adorned in golden and silver armor, said cutting into the conversation. The footman was one of the elite Royal Guard. Even though they scarcely numbered a hundred, the Royal Guard had held back the Undead legions at one of the breaches in the wall.

Behind the Royal Guard stood a tall figure dressed in golden chain mail and silver plate with a flowing green cape. He held his winged helmet between his arm and side as he stepped up to meet the king.

"What are you doing in my kingdom again Quel?" Thoras said with a venom in his voice.

Alaric was taken aback by it. He had just saved Stromguard and had been friends with Thoras when he was younger.

The Elf stood staring for a moment. Then, Thoras cracked into laughter. He came up to Alaric holding a hand out to him.

"Good to see you boy, good to see you! I thought you died when Silvermoon was taken. I am sorry, but communications are not what they once were" he repeated.

"You too Thoras" Alaric said also embracing the man's handshake. "But we can't sit here and reminisce. There are forces at work now, and we must act now to contend with them. I have returned now with a…prize from Kalimdor. We should speak more of this in closed quarters away from the ears of the men good sire Trollbane"

"Of course. Lets make our way to the Court" he said pointing out the strangely unblocked road to the Keep.

The two conversed for hours. Alaric told Thoras of his adventures in Kalimdor, and how he had acquired the Waters of Eternity.

"I plan to gather the armies of the remaining nations and set forth into the north. There we will campaign in search of the Litch Kel'thuzad, the Litch King's acting vassal in the Plaugelands. If we can eliminate him, then we can create a confusion among the Undead hordes long enough to set sail to Northrend and put an end to the Litch King with the Waters. Yet, there is one last piece of the puzzle that I need to utilize the powers of the Waters. I tried once before, right after we landed in Lordaeron. Yet that try nearly cost me my life and the life of the Brotherhood of Light's Cleric's. After speculation, I have discovered that the magics I need to control the Waters lie in the Book of Medivh. Only there with the Guardians of Tirisfal's magic can I possibly hope to control the Waters we so rightly fought for"

The King pondered at the information he had just received. "So you have acquired these…Waters of Eternity. They are supposedly of immense magical power, so much so that you cannot control them without the most sacred book of magic known to men" he reviewed.

"Yes, that is an legible summery" Alaric concluded. "But I do not know if the armies of the Alliance will be enough. When I left, the Alliance was in tatters. The armies were scattered and in full retreat. I must scrape up what I can for this campaign"

"Alaric, the Alliance has changed since you were gone. Effective as October 25th, 621, the Second Articles of Alliance were signed. Varian Wrynn drafted them himself. Though against my will, I signed the Articles. This new Alliance gives far too much power to the King of Stormwind though. He is now close to a dictator, and we are but advisors. Yet what was I supposed to do? Our lands were overrun, and this was the only protectorate and help I could turn to!"

"Hm…this may serve to our purposes" Alaric said thoughtfully. "If it is Varian Wrynn who is in control of this new Alliance, then it is him that I must convince to see my way. Good friend Thoras, I believe that my time is up in this city, and I must now travel to grand Stormwind. The storm is coming, and I am now reaping the whirlwind"

"Leaving already? But you have just arrived, and from battle and chaos as well!" Thoras rebuked.

"Yes, but I must leave. Time is of the essence. Speaking of time, Thoras, what means of travel do you have that I can use?" Alaric said now hurrying.

"I always keep my loyal gryphon in the royal stables. Though he may not be a horse, he is the most loyal of my subjects. Apollinax shall carry you far and fast Alaric. He of course was a gift from the dwarves of Aieres Peak, so you already know his capabilities. I wish you the best, and by the way. My city is in ruins and the defenses shattered. What will you do with _your _army?"

"The Expedition will stay in this city and help guard it. The Brotherhood of Light's Clerics have the Waters of Eternity safely hidden away, and so they shall be staying as well. Farewell Thoras, and if all goes well, I should return within the week upon Apollinax" and with that, Alaric shook the hand of Thoras once more and made off to the royal stables where the noble Appolinax gryphon lay nestled. After a quick jolt to wake it up, Alaric was off on the majestic beast.

………………………………………………

The gryphon ride was smooth for the most part. The ride had taken the entire day and night and now finally reaching the sunrise Alaric could see the distant spires of Stormwind in the distant sky. As he neared, the more majestic buildings came into view.

The city was one that was built to withstand a siege. After the horrible battles that had razed it in the First War, the people of Azeroth were resilient and prepared to fight at all times. Even after the terrible scars that had been inflicted in the Second War, and the hordes of refugees moving down from the north Stormwind and its lands had still stood as the greatest bastion of human might in the world.

Yet these were troubled times for the kingdom. The provinces of Westfall, a southern area in Azeroth, had been left to decay after the First War and fell into the hands of marauders and bandits. To the east the remnant of the Horde struck hard against them, and always to the north lay the threat of the Undead.

As the glorious shapes and architecture grew closer, Alaric's mount now began to slow, and drop down. In the cobblestone streets he could see the thousands of citizens walking around in the bustling and colorful various districts. To left and right there were other gryphons landing at a gryphon roost which served as transportation to the outposts of the Alliance.

Behind the gryphon roost another half a kilometer of city perhaps lay Stormwind Keep, the greatest fortification ever built by the hands of men. Inside the wall itself seemed like another city filled with the Castle, turrets, armories, barracks, even merchants and housing for nobles.

"And that is where I wish to go" Alaric said to himself. Slowly the gryphon eased down into the gryphon roost which towered above the rest of the city.

Upon landing, a man walked up to him demanding pay for the landing. Alaric obliged dryly and slowly descended upon the magic driven elevator.

He walked the streets of the city slowly enjoying the senses of civilization out of danger once more. The scent of freshly baked bread, the sight of the wooden taverns, the fluttering banners, and laughing men. It was good to see Stormwind once again. He had been here a few times before, but only in prologue to the Third War.

As he approached the Keep, more and more guards appeared. At last though, after nearly an hour of walking and conversing with the people of the city he had reached the massive wall. In front of him, the gate to the Keep was guarded by more than a dozen of the local barracks.

'Who goes there!" one demanded as Alaric walked up to the adorned gate.

"Alaric'Quel of Quel'thalas. I have urgent matters to discuss with the King" he responded.

"No ones gonna' see the King unless e' says so!" the guard captain spattered.

"There is no time for this" Alaric said stretching out his hand. With a flick of his wrist and a swish of magic, the guards fell to the ground paralyzed.

Finally within the walls of the Keep, he wandered in search of the King's Chambers. Suddenly, a voice called out "Whats this? An Elf in the royal Keep! You are under arrest Elf!" another guard said as he and his patrol recognized him. An idea formulated in Alaric's mind. Let them capture you, and bring the King to you instead of wasting time looking for him.

"Fine! I offer no resistance! No weapons do I have, just inform the King that an old acquaintance wants to speak with him, for I have information crucial to the survival of the kingdom" Alaric shouted out.

"The King'll do what he pleases. But for you, its to the gallows!" And into the gallows Alaric went. Placed behind iron bars of the Stormwind Gallows, Alaric now waited quietly for the King to arrive. It took nearly half the day, but finally, the prison doors swung open and in walked King Varian Wrynn with all his pomp and royalty.

"I didn't believe it when they told me Alaric'Quel was in my city" the King said slowly studying Alaric. "We have not had a pleasant past you and I, so speak now what you have to!"

"As always, a pleasure to see you your highness" Alaric said back to him, voice thick with sarcasm. "But as for my information, I believe it is best if we speak in a more…private location" Alaric said looking straight into Vairans grey eyes.

Slowly he nodded.

………………………………………

"So, you want me to hand over control of the armies of the Alliance to you! A rouge elf that bribed my best general for the soldiers of our soverngity!" Varian bellowed, voice echoing in the hall.

"King, I will tell you what I told Anduin Preaton. I have uncovered an ancient power that lay dormant for 10,000 years in Kalimdor. This power I have collected shall be used to destroy the Litch King and his damned empire forever. Your lands are slowly being encroached and infiltrated. Yes, King, the Undead agents are here even within this very city and perhaps even this very Keep. Now, to save what we can from this burning hulk, we must stop, or at least slow down the advance of the Undead. Just a week ago, your grand army was absolutely destroyed according to my sourses"

Varian winced at the thought of the 1st Army's destruction. "What sources would those be Quel?"

"King Trollbane of Stromguard" Alaric answered.

"A week ago, I was surprisingly visited by a prophet claiming to be the voice of the light. Apparently, he told me one such as you, a messiah would come with a power strong enough to burn the sickness of the Undead from Azeroth forever. Now…what have you to suggest?"

"King Wrynn, over the past few months, my comrades and I have traversed the difficult terrain of Kalimdor. We faced the full might of the Orcish nation of Durotar, the power Night Elves, and of course the indigenous life. Upon reaching the battle site of the Battle of Mt. Hyjal, we summoned the Waters of Eternity; the very source of what our Sunwell came from. Yet these Waters are far more powerful than any other magics that we have ever encountered. These Waters give of some kind of aura…a infinite well of power that all things are possible in. And so I have come back now to use this new weapon against the enemies of our world. Yet, their power is so much, that I alone cannot control them. Not even the expert mages of the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics can control them as we painfully learned several weeks ago…And so, we must collect one more item; the fabled Book of Medivh which first told this world of the Waters of Eternity, and how to control them"

"And you wish to control all Alliance forces for this…crusade? What will you do? Where shall you look for the Book of Medivh?" Varian implied.

"When the Undead waves finally broke the ranks of the Alliance in the Siege of Dalaran, the Book went missing. Nearly costing him his life, the wizard Rhonin tried to recover the Book and gather up the historical items of Dalaran in its final hours. He stumbled upon the Litch, Kel'thuzad. This, Kel'thuzad apparently had the Book of Medivh, and used it to summon the Burning Legion into this world. Now, Kel'thuzad is the Litch King's greatest vassal in Lordaeron, and keeps the Undead there on the leash"

Varian caught the eye of Alaric and smiled "And so, if we are able to wage a final war upon Kel'thuzad, it would first of all distract the Litch King from your plan. Secondly, we could capture the Book of Medivh, and lastly destroy Kel'thuzad and throw the Undead in Lordaeron into disarray! A bold plan for an Elf I must say. I always believed your kind to be overcautious and impractical"

Alaric snorted at the comment then continued "Now, good King. Since the end of the Third War, I have waged a guerilla war upon the Undead, as have many of the last armies of Lordaeron and Quel'thalas. During this time, I constructed such strategies and plans all leading up to this moment; this one critical moment. 2 years ago, I formed the nucleus of my army made up of Blood Elves. It expanded and now has reached its zenith, yet it alone cannot do this deed by itself. I _need_ the armies and entire output of the Alliance to back me in the final, glorious venture"

Alaric let the moment settle for a while, while Varian sat quietly in thought.

He then stood up, and stuck a hand out to Alaric. "Let us be rid of the Scourge forever" he said as Alaric shook the hand.

"Now, good King, we must wage the War of the Ruins on the offensive. What is the status of the Alliance?" Alaric queried.

"The greatest armed force of the Alliance under my nephew Duke Winfield of Ethren is marching north as we speak. They should be in Stromguard by the end of the week. The Duke has nearly 40,000 men under his control. The 1st is regrouping on the outskirts of Southshore for a counter attack. They number nearly 6,000. The 2nd and 4th Armies left Crestfall nearly two weeks ago to set up base in Theramore and protect our colonies in Kalimdor. We have a great abundance of men spread out across southern Lordaeron, yet they are not grouped into a single fighting force. And there is also the pockets of resistance in the Plaugelands. That is all the forces under my immediate command, though there are bound to be other forces working to defeat the Scourge that we can recruit as well" Varian summarized.

"Very well. Now, we must set to the strategizing immediately, but before we do, I beg to ask you a question" Alaric stated.

"What?"

"What was the name of this prophet whom told you of me?" Alaric asked, voice deep in thought.

"He stated his name was once Kelen-Lightkeeper. Why of do you ask?"

"Because it was the same prophet whom first told me about the Waters of Eternity on Mt. Hyjal" Alaric answered.

…………………………………………

3 weeks later, near Southshore

The city of Southshore had once again fallen into Alliance hands. It had turned out that General Anduin Praeton had not been killed in the Southshore Massacre. With the guidance of the new Lord-Marshal Alaric'Quel of the Second Alliance, the outnumbered 6,000 men of the tattered 1st Army took back the city. As they advanced over the bodies of their fallen comrades, they sang the songs of victory.

Alaric sat in the abandoned town meeting center. He had converted the building once used to debate issues into a crowded center of war. From here, he had organized the 1st Army back into a fighting force. Slowly but surely, the scattered Alliance armies began to regroup and prepare for new battles. And soon, all would be ready for the campaign in the Plaugelands.

He stepped outside into the salty breeze, the wind blowing from the sea. He looked around to see the charred skeletons of buildings. A picture of death for this town. And yet, he then looked around again to see peasants, and his own soldiers rebuilding; a picture of hope for the town.

He then climbed the ladder to reach the top of the watch tower. His army was assembling for its march into the deapths of the darkest enemy the world had ever known. Finally reaching the top he saw in all its glory, the 1st Army's camp spread all across the flowing grass on the green hills.

Slowly taking in the sight of the ever growing army, he whispered quietly to himself "Yes, by Light this time we will do it! This time, we will win and take back what is ours!"

**Armies of the Alliance:**

All Alliance armies as of Febuary, 622 are under the control of Alaric'Quel. From the death filled air of northern Lordaeron to the lush forests of Elywen the forces of Light regroup. In Stromguard, the Expedition and Royal forces of Stromguard prepare for their advance. Just outside of Stromguard, Duke Winfield, now second in command of the Alliance military campaign breaks camp and prepares to move forward.

In the ruins of Quel'thalas, Lordaeron, and Dalaran, small groups resistance fighters unite with rumor from the south that a great push is being prepared to wipe the slate clean once and for all.

The navies of the Alliance nations are not in the command of Alaric, yet in the capable hands of Admiral Clearis of Kul-Tiras. They are busy transporting the men, equipment, and other supplies from the Dwarven lands and Azeroth.

Slowly but surely, the forces of Azeroth are preparing for the grand push that will win the war, and end the suffering.

(Tune in next time for the climactic string of battles that will occur in the Plaugelands and set the inevitable in motion in Chapter 15)

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	17. Chapter 15: Once more unto the Breach

Chapter 15: Once More unto the Breach

Lordaeron Coast, 2 days after Expedition Landing

The Expedition had recently landed upon the sandy beaches of eastern Lordaeron. He and the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics had traveled farther inland, toward the more ethereal energies that supposedly consumed this land. They would prove useful cover against the magics from the infinite well of power from the Waters of Eternity.

"Now that we are away from the infirmities and restrictions of camp gentlemen, let us now prepare for the final ritual" Alaric spoke, eyes fixated on the Vials of Illidan which contained the luminescent Waters of Eternity.

This world had too long been drowned in the fires of war, and now, with these Waters, they would quench that fire, and bring peace back to their once glorious civilizations. It was time now. They had dragged the Waters from Kalimdor, from the very summit of Mt. Hyjal, to this desolate area. Here, they would unleash, and tame the powers that were trapped inside the magical laced vials.

Alaric and the Clerics slowly uncorked the vials, pouring their contents into a huge central goblet within their ritual circle. Inside the golden and glowing cauldron, lay the bubbling and bluish-purple tinged Waters.

"Now that we have caught you, you shall be tamed by the Blood Elves! And with your power, we shall wipe all resistance off the face of this earth!" Alaric thought silently. "Brothers, let us commence!" he said, drawing the necessary magical runes in the sand. The others did so as well.

When the runes were drawn, each Cleric blessed the rune with the Light, and each one began to glow, and rise above the sand to encompass the goblet filled with the inevitable depths of power.

The ritual words were then chanted. Over and over they commanded the Seals of Power, or the runes, towards the Waters. With the Seals of Power's success, they might be able to trap the power of the primordial Waters and place it within their grasp to control. But the control was harder to get to than Alaric had ever anticipated.

He knew the Water's power. He knew it would not be easy, but he had not expected this. All of a sudden, a blast of light appeared, and cascaded around the countryside, pushing him and the other Clerics back several meters. The blast of energy shattered the golden goblet, and killed several of the Clerics.

Getting up slowly, Alaric's body seared with pain. As he looked across the now charred landscape, he could not help but notice that the Waters did not touch the ground. Instead, in a giant ball resembling the shape of the goblet, they floated.

…………………………………………………

They had once again retrieved the Waters in the Vials of Illidan and made it back to camp, their numbers fewer, and members greatly disheartened. Alaric himself was the most demoralized.

"How? We have come all this way for nothing? Have we not followed the ancient scripts of how to control such powers as these?" he asked himself over and over as he stumbled back into his cot. "What does this mean? Shall there be no war after all? Shall we just disappear under the heel of the Litch King?"

In his cot there, the thoughts swirled in his head. He slept not that night.

Cold, and completely deprived of spirit, he walked out of his tent several hours later seeking solace from the rest of the camp. In the knee deep grass he continued to walk, ceremonial robe still on. With an anger filling him, he called out "Where are you Prophet? Who told me that these Waters were the answer! How can I use them if I can't control them?" for a minute, his voice echoed over the plains.

Almost immediately a small ripple in the air to the fore of him occurred. In its wake was a gaping hole of light, and from that light walked forth an old hunched over figure.

"Greetings once more Alaric'Quel. I sense you come with tidings of ill?"

"Yes" Alaric replied slowly "I know you. You are the prophet. The one who told me my people's salvation was within those accursed Waters! Damn you old man! Those Waters have brought us nothing but death, and you spoke of salvation!" voice increasing with anger.

The prophet turned his gaze from Alaric and to the silver moon. "Yes. I told you it was your salvation. But I did not tell you how to control it. You can only contain it, slow it down"

"Then how old man?" Alaric said, voice dropping "How can I control this power? What sacrifice must I make in order for these people to be brought to the harbor of safety and the utter vengeance in their hearts lusted?"

"You know of when we first met, yes?" the old prophet, Kelen the Light-Seeker, spoke. Alaric nodded. "I told you that this would be a great war. When you retrieved the remnants of the Well of Eternity, there would be waged a crusade of the Light. Well, let me tell you now. I too, underestimated the resilience of the Waters. But there is one power great enough on this world to control them. One source of magic that holds the knowledge to wield them"

"What is this thing, oh prophet!" Alaric cried out.

"The Book of Medivh!" the prophet finally said. He let the words settle, the moment take shape.

"But that Book has been lost since the Third War!" Alaric rebuked.

"Yes, but I have found it! Form your armies! March them north, to the Tirisfal Glades, and there under the arm of the Litch Kel'thuzad you shall find the Book of Medivh, and the spells to wield the power of the Waters of Eternity!" and with those words, the prophet phased out of existence in a brief burst of light.

…………………………………………

It had been weeks since that time. The Battle of Stromguard had occurred, and the Blood Elf Alaric'Quel had traveled across the continents of Azeroth and Lordaeron rallying the armies of the Alliance in accordance to the prophet's orders. Soon, the great offencive, one the likes of which had not been seen since the end of the Second War against the Orcs would begin…

…………………………………………….

Thoradin's Wall, Southern Lordaeron, March 1st, 1st Year of the Age of Reclamation 1 months after Expedition Landing (the New Age)

Across the continent, men were rallying under the banners of the Alliance, creating a strength it had not seen since before the Third War. The confidence once vested in it was returning, and even the wayward nations such as Gilneas saw that it was time to back this war with all they had.

There on either sides of the ancient Arathi ruins named Thoradin's Wall lay the army of the Second Alliance. The old core remnants of the 1st Army, the 3rd, and 5th armies had merged here. Already with over 65,000 men, more kept streaming in daily to replenish the long emptied ranks.

Finally, after weeks of preparation the army was ready for the advance. By orders of the Lord-Marshal Alaric'Quel himself, all armies would drive forward on March 1st, and eventually meet at their goal; the bastion of Undead power on the continent known as the Undercity for the people of the Alliance saw no difference in the Scourge, and the Forsaken for both were an enemy, and both were unholy Undead.

Genn Blackswift had participated in the journey to Kalimdor alongside the warriors of the grand Expedition. He had been the scout that had saved the entire Expedition by warning them that the Orcish armies were closer than Captain Eolas had though. And after the Battle of the Arathi Highlands, he had been promoted to a Battalion Commander in the former 3rd army now known as the 3rd Corps of the Army of the Durnhold.

The Durnhold was an old castle fortification that once had been an Orc internment camp. And now, the ever growing army was named after it in memory of a greater time.

Flags and banners carrying the standards of the old Alliance; the L with a sword piercing it, and the flags of the nations in the new Alliance fluttered slightly. Around him, were the men of this new, untested, and strong army.

The variety of soldiers in the army was amazing. They ranged from farmers with naught but pitchforks to the battle worn armor of the average footman, to the gleaming mail of the noble knights.

As he heard the trumpets call for advance of the 3rd Corps, he shouted out "Battalion! Forward MARCH!" And so the clinking of metal began as his column moved forward.

And so the leading knife's edge of the Army of the Durnhold was on the move. Soon, the rest would be breaking camp to follow. Likewise around southern Lordaeron, the armies of the Alliance started moving north, some slower or faster than others. Genn though quietly to himself while watching over his moving column, "This marks the day when we stamp those unholy beasts out of our realm forever!"

But the martial might of the Alliance could never meet that of the Scourge, for the Scourge itself had too many numbers on its side. This advance would be but a feint, a ruse arousing the Litch King into a war of maneuvering and trickery. All it was, was a way for Alaric to slowly swing in from behind, and take the Book of Medivh from the Litch Kel'thuzad…

……………………………………

Tirisfal Glades, March 4th

Kel'thuzad looked out upon the dead glades of Tirisfal with whatever his face could summon for a twisted smirk. He could see through the eyes of countless of his minions. And what he saw pleased him. The living forces of Azeroth were regrouping; coming back to war. He would enjoy toying with them before the end.

Once upon a time, Kel'thuzad had been an esteemed wizard of Dalaran. He had even been offered a seat on the High Council of the city, but declined. He was considered by many students and elder wizards to be a genius, but by that time in his life, he had first dabbled with the dark majiks. Then, the one fateful day arrived when he heard the telepathic call of the Litch King. In those days the Litch King was imprisoned in his icy coffin on top of the Frozen Throne.

Kel'thuzad had heeded the call, left upon a Lorderanian sloop to the frozen lands of the continent of Northrend. There, he searched for months for the place of this immense and irresistible call. When he finally looked upon the glaciers and the one tall spire of ice he knew then of the thing he had searched for all his life. The Litch King offered him eternal life after his death should he ever die in his employ, and Kel'thuzad gladly accepted. From then on in, he was the Litch King's first true necromancer in the lands of Lordaeron. He set in motion the betrayal and death of the soul of Arthas, and the wars to come. When he had died at the hands of the still human Arthas, the Litch King resurrected him as an even more powerful Litch.

And now, he was rewarded with an undying life, and was ordered by the Litch King, once Arthas _and _Ner'zul, to hold dominion over the now undead kingdom of Lordaeron. Finally, after two years of sniveling in the dark places of the world, the races of the free people of the Eastern Kingdoms had shown their faces. Earlier that day, he had contacted the Litch King through the telepathic bond he held to all creatures of the Scourge and told him of the events transpiring. Of course the Litch King had already known, but gave instructions to Kel'thuzad to stamp out all resistance and move south immediately with the fresh new troops they would receive upon the obliteration of these pathetic armies.

Kel'thuzad turned from the bleak glades to face a necromancer. His face pale, eyes hollow, and orange robes splattered with dried blood, the necromancer looked much like the many others of his kind. Though this one had come bearing a message.

"Kel'thuzad, the forces of the Alliance approach Tarren Mill. Many Necropolises draw their energy from that area, and the spirit energy of the Necropolises are the only thing keeping many of the Undead there energized with undeath for they were not original victims to the plague, but ones raised from the dead in haste for battle" the nameless necromancer reported.

Kel'thuzad replied, the inside of his undead skull spewing forth blue flame "I am well aware of the situation in Tarren Mill. We are to let the rabble come forward and fight us. Shall they win, they will move on and fight us again and again; each time weakening. Let them come. In the end they shall find the finality of all things; death"

With those words, the necromancer also nodded with his own twisted smirk, and passed away into the grim dusty wind.

"Let them come. Let them fight the might of the Scourge, for I shall make sure that the leader of these armies endures eternal pain" Kel'thuzad once again talked to himself. In his bony arm, he clutched a brown collection of parchment; the Book of Medivh, the key to using the most awesome power in the world; the Waters of Eternity.

……………………………………..

Tarren Mill, Lordaeron, March 4th

"Forward! For your countries, for your families, for your children, and for the Alliance!" Alaric screamed out as wave after wave of Undead battered their way into his lines. Again and again they had come, blooding the front line troops.

The bleak sun was setting now, casting a strange red hue in the sky. In the distance Alaric could make out the silhouettes of the Undead necropolises, sprouting forth their vile energies. The day had been spent much like this. Pushing forward, slowly but surely over the bodies of their own dead. Finally, the Army of the Durnhold had come upon the ruined village of Tarren Mill.

At about noon, the first troops had rolled into Tarren Mill. It was quiet, considering the amount of dead there had been before their final advance into the town. The first battalions in the city though, were doomed before they even knew what hit them. It happened that thousands of undead archers and spell casters lay hidden in the stone and wood ruins. All of a sudden, with frightening efficiency the battalions were cut down. Almost none survived the onslaught of arrows and flying energy balls.

Alaric along with Dethal and the other commanders then ordered mortar teams to blast many of the half recognizable ruins, turning them into smoking rubble. The army then advanced into the city, and had encountered stiff resistance. Here they had been stuck all day in a stalemate with the Undead forces that continued to pour out of their dark energy portals and such. Not to far back several villages were secured, and in thus doing so gave a fresh supply line for the Army of the Durnhold. And so the carnage had not stopped all day.

Alaric stood with his men at the frontline. Hundreds of footmen and other ragged soldiers stood to the sides of him. The army was spread out all across the city, trying to pry their way deeper in to reach the necropolises. Yet every time they attacked, they were repulsed, and the same went for the Scourge forces.

Many of his soldiers were wounded, carrying deep cuts and bandages wrapped around arms, legs, torso, or the head. But their wounds did not end their vigor and hopes of conquest. They were on a crusade, to retake what was once theirs after all! Many a Lorderanian refugee had joined the cause, to fight alongside Stromguardian, Azeroth, Gilneas, Dwarven, and Elven troops.

But now Alaric looked out upon the ruins of the city with uncertainty. A huge wave of Undead, the largest yet was massing in the near distance; marching towards them. In the gleaming last remnants of the sun, Alaric could see their ranks, could hear the rhythmical thumping of footsteps, and could smell the taste of death in the air. To his right, Dethal cried out his name running up to him.

"Alaric! I have brought you these soldiers. I know that you only have eight hundred or so under your control, and your position now is the one under the most pressure. Many have been slain here, but we must hold on!" Dethal said pointing to a contingent of what looked to be a mix of royal Kul-Tiras Marines, and a group of farmers in rags boasting pitchforks and rusty shovels as weapons.

"How many?" Alaric asked voice raspy after a day of shouting.

"Nearly five hundred sire. I will return with what I can muster as soon as possible. May the Light be with you!" he said running off.

Alaric nodded, and silently returned the prayer. Now, it was time to settle this battle once and for all, for if they one this skirmish, than they could have the momentum to push forward to the Undead spirit centers.

Slowly, the Undead inched closer and closer. Alaric counted the seconds, waiting for a precise moment. NOW!

"KILL THEM ALL!" he cried out at the top of his lungs, and lunged forward, nearly tripping over blocks of rubble. Behind him, the nine hundred followed a battle to the death. With war cries and shouts of vulgar promise to destroy the Scourge, the group ran forward. Now also, the Scourge had begun to run, pikes and other salvaged weapons sticking straight forward.

For this moment, however loud it was, it seemed like absolute quite to Alaric. He saw only the glints of light on armor, the fading light of the red sun. The smoke rising in the distance, and the monsters right in front of him. He held his sword down, said the words of magic, and conjured a pillar of flame.

Alaric, sword unsheathed, ran with his battalions straight into the heart of the enemy line. Many were cut down by the debris flung at them by the meat wagons and skeleton archers, while many more were impaled on the sharp ends of the pikes.

A pitched battle raged around him. Footman fought ghoul, dwarven riflemen pumping abominations full of lead, priests and sorceresses unleashing spells upon the flying creatures of the Scourge, while knights unsuccessfully tried to flank the enemy in the rear.

Cutting swathes through a few ghouls, Alaric smiled. That was until he heard the dying screams of a footman to his right. A nerubian sentient had unleashed its spiderlings which burrowed through the man's armor and ate him from the inside out. In fury, Alaric charged the nerubian and drove his rune blade deep into the spider's innards which sprayed green blood all over Alaric's newly polished armor.

Behind him another nerubian appeared, but instead of releasing its young to feast on his flesh, it crouched down, and jumped an astonishing ten feet and landed straight on top of Alaric. Barely holding the beast back, Alaric rolled to the side, raised his blade, and hacked continually at the nerubian's black-grey hide until it lay in a pile of its own pulp.

To his left, a rather large abomination squashed a rather wounded and helpless wounded footman with its reanimated fleshy foot, and threw its arm in a wide circle throwing another half dozen backwards surely breaking their ribs. One astute dwarven rifleman slowly inched towards the raging abomination, primed a musket ball, and fired. The ball penetrated deep into the abominations half decayed brain, driving the creature near insanity. It spotted the sharp shooting dwarf, picked him up before he could escape, and smashed his skull into the ground.

The fight was not going well Alaric realized. Many of his men were being slaughtered, and quicker than he had anticipated. Then, from somewhere around him he heard the familiar stomping of hooves, and the battle cries of the Order of the Horse, one of the Azerothian Knight clans.

As quickly as he had heard the war cries, a wave of noble knights in the shining silver chain and plate mail with the blue and gold capes of Azeroth plowed through the Undead, trampling many ghouls. Reinvigorated, the troops under Alaric's command stopped fighting defensively and released the pinned up rage of three years of massacre. In mere minutes, the Undead force that had once stood so high and mightily before the forces of Light were all but 'dead' corpses once more.

Peering around at the sight of the battle, Alaric spotted the leader of the knights that had come to their rescue. Looking up at the tall and noble man on the horse, he shouted out "Duke Winfield, a moment of your time!"

"Ah yes, Alaric'Quel, our brave leader in this campaign. I just thought I would drop by and lend a hand" he said with a smile, the smile of youth.

"Yes" Alaric replied dryly "Now that we have broken the center of the Scourge's resistance, we must now move quickly and bombard those necropolises before the enemy can regroup!"

Winfield nodded quickly, swung back onto his horse and was off to get the siege tanks and mortar teams, a plume of dust rising behind his horse.

But now that they had gained momentum, Alaric could not allow it to disappear. He raised his sword again, and the remaining soldiers charged forwards toward the Undead spirit collection centers. As he ran, he noticed that the ground was slowly changing from the mud and rubble to a deathly grey-black tinge; the Blight.

Panting at the full speed of the run, Alaric swung his head around quickly to see that the other wings of the army were still not moving forward, were still locked in a stalemate. 'So we shall have no back up this time' he thought.

Approaching the Scourge's colony where the creation of all their beasts and the reanimation of corpses was done, Alaric spotted more enemies; ghouls cutting wood, necromancers commanding them, nerubians gathering their eggs for hatching, and many a gargoyle, watching from afar in the sky. Gargoyles were the Litch King's creating, a twisted version of the sculptures men used to create in northern Lordaeron during one of the darker eras in its history a few centuries ago. The gargoyles would be a problem; Alaric had nothing but a few riflemen whose weapons were nearly depleted of ammunition to fire at the terrors in the sky.

He held up his hand, an order for the men to stop. He passed the word to quickly and quietly hide in the bushes surrounding the necropolis centers. 'We will wait until the mortar teams arrive' he replied to those who asked him why they had stopped.

Shuffling in the thorny bush he had foolishly chosen, he slipped his armor plate off his face and swung it back up on top of his elven steel helmet. Sitting in this one area, he uncomfortably felt his sweat completely soak every last vestige of dry cloth under the armor, courtesy of the last small battle that had occurred. Impatient, he also wringed his hands over and over in the agony of waiting for the Duke and his mortar teams. The Knights the Duke had brought were a ways back behind; their horses might start neighing at an unfortunate time and give them away, and also that the Knight's could not hide the horses in these damned bushes.

The sun had set now, only a dim glimmer of light still clung to the orange going on dark blue sky. To the east he saw a large silver disk, the moon, rising to take the place of the banished sun. 'It will provide us with sufficient light' he said in a whisper to those around him who filled with fear of fighting in the pitch dark.

What seemed like hours had finally passed and when Alaric was just about to call the attack off, the Duke arrived on his horse alone.

"Lord Marshal! I have a contingent of mortar teams coming up this way from the south and they should be here shortly. Though we are more than a little stretched thin on rifles and archers, I think what we have here will suffice" the Duke whispered to Alaric, after he found him rummaging through the sea of crouched men.

"Excellent. Let us put their special talents to work" Alaric replied, a new battle lust setting in his voice. As the mortar teams covertly placed themselves, the men hiding in the brush and deadened forest prepared to lift up and assault the strongly guarded necropolises. Perhaps the Undead did not know that their lines had been so badly broken and that they were susceptible to attack. But that worked to their advantage, and the forces of the Alliance were about to give this spirit center a rude wake up call.

"Fire!" the cry echoed across the line. It was shortly followed by the high pitched sound of the gunpowder filled iron casings that were flung into the air by the ingenious Dwarfs. Nearly five hundred yards away the shells arced and impacted creating brilliant explosions of light that filled the night sky. Though most of the rounds missed, the ones that hit created severe damage on the ability for the Undead buildings to process whatever it was they were once doing. And the bombardment continued for minutes that seemed like hours.

The men then stood, and to the sound of the trumpet charged forward, armor and weapons clinking creating an awful sound in the night. Suddenly aware that their entire chain of command was threatened the Undead creatures, whether they were collecting resources or just idly sitting around arose and as beasts they were without the command of a Death Knight, Crypt Lord, Nathrazim, Litch, or sufficient numbers of necromancers, attacked with no coordination whatsoever.

This time it seemed that the Undead were surrounded. The attack here, if successful would destabilize the whole area, throwing the Undead back at the front line into disarray. The quickness of the chaos that would ensue would not allow even the Litch King to gain full control over his minions.

And so that was why Tarren Mill had to fall now, and in a speedy fashion.

The few Undead left to guard the rear bases were easily overcome and slaughtered. Within minutes, footmen had set fire to the damned necropolises, and the mortar teams were able, now closer and with better accuracy, blast through the harder shells of the spirit collection buildings.

Alaric laughed almost evilly now, thought of the absolute confusion the Litch King would be feeling right now "That's right you bastard, Arthas! Feel what it is like to lose something precious!"

And so the destabilization of the entire Undead force began. Suddenly without a connection to the Litch King's consciousness, the Undead beasts fell upon themselves, allowing for a breakthrough. The carnage and massacre continued thought the night, and by morning, the new and old Alliance banners had been raised fluttering softly in the morning breeze.

……………………………………

Tarren Mill, Lordaeron, March 5th

The assessment of the battle had just begun to leak into his de facto command post, which happened to be nothing more than a large tent put up over a patch of grass in the pile of rubble that used to be the town square and forum.

The casualties had been high, but not as large as Alaric had initially thought. "A thousand men dead…with more than three thousand wounded" he read on a piece of parchment, wetted and smeared by the early morning shower.

His heart ached for every man dead or wounded, had so for everyone he had seen die since the First War, but it _had _to be done. They were so close to ultimate victory. They had the Waters, soon they would have the Book, and they had already reclaimed many lands in Lordaeron for the Alliance.

Now that this Undead army was gone forever from the face of Azeroth, they could continue onwards. The other armies would stage diversions, absorbing the attention of the Scourge's underlings while Alaric and his forces would slip deep into the Plaugelands and steal away the Book of Medivh from the accursed traitor to the Light, Kel'thuzad.

And also finally for the first time in many days reports from the other armies across the continent had arrived. Progress was going well for all except for one, under the command of the as ever unlucky Anduin Praeton that was encountering extremely stiff resistance near the base of the Altrac Mountain Range.

As the day passed, and the orders had been issued to move out the next morning, the commanders had left Alaric to his own self. Staring up at the dirty stretched and torn cloth that was the in essence the central command of all forces of the Alliance on both the continents of Azeroth and Lordaeron, Alaric'Quel of Silvermoon could see a single pinprick of light seeping through a hole in his tent. He found himself reflecting on that sunset, which had a very symbolic nature to it. Perhaps this was an image of the many wins to come, or of a hollow victory, and new enemies from within. Perhaps it truly was the end of an age, or perhaps it was the end of the Scourge… "Only time will tell" Alaric said, slowly getting up, and pulling his wooden chair over to a table that held the map of Northrend. The War of the Ruins had just escalated.

**Bonus Profile: Alaric'Quel's Rune Blade**

It has been a magical weapon wielded by many, and of late, Alaric Faltron'Quel of Silvermoon. The blade itself was created many millennia ago, by a long forgotten mage who also sported the skill of metallurgy. The blade was christened with many powers, such as an aura that increased the strength and resolve of its master.

It also included a magic that when unlocked created a beam of light that washed over entire battlefields, and extinguished all life within its range. But that and many others of its abilities were forgotten over the long centuries since its creating.

The blade also seemed to tap into the consciousness of its wielder and created the illusion that the blade was nearly an extension of the arm. The different metals of the blade have never been found naturally, so it is believe that they were created from pure magic, or were at least laced deeply with it. These metals help create an amazingly light blade, an easy to grip hilt, and an incredible strength that rivals that of even the infamous Frostmourne blade wielded by Arthas, supposed King of Lordaeron.

Who the creator was, nobody could ever tell. All that was remembered of him was the strange runes that he carved into the hilt and extension of the sword. In the hundreds of years since its creation, it fell into the hands of one of the Sunstrider Dynasty. It was then passed on as an heirloom to the Quel family, and was eventually received by Alaric after his father died at the hands of a Troll ambush nearly four hundred years before the War of the Ruins.

Whatever history, dark or light, that the sword has is carried with it forever, and sometimes allows the wielder glimpses into the past. But for now, the history of the sword is irrelevant. What is more important is that the sword is a powerful ally and tool indeed, and will be needed in the harsh trials that Azeroth will soon endure…

(Well, hoped you guys enjoyed that chapter there. As always I am begging for some reviews here. C'mon guys, give me reviews! I need to know how I am doing! Well, other than that, thanks for those of you who do review, and the next chapter should be out shortly being as it is not as long as this one and is already underway. Until next time…May the Light be with you!)


	18. Chapter 16: Edge of the Hallowed Saber

Chapter 16: Edge of the Hallowed Saber

Edge of the Western Plaugelands, Lordaeron, March 19th

The wind ripped at his face through the armor plating as he pushed the steed beneath him to gallop faster. The horses hoof beats and his own racing heart the only thing driving him onward. Duke Tal Winfield was just returning from the last supply wagons that sat dumbly in the Arathi Highlands, the foolish quartermaster of the Alliance haven lost track of this particular army.

He rode quickly past skeletal remains of buildings and the people once of a great nation. He had ridden an incredible distance in a short amount of time to reach Stromguard just after the victory at Tarren Mill to receive the new recruits for the Army of the Durnhold. Now, under the command of a militia officer, the recruits were making their way north best they could while he rode ahead with news from the southern nations. In the distance, not far beyond the eastern base of the Aletrac Mountains which lay two miles to his right, small pillars of smoke rose.

"Yes, there they are" Tal thought to himself. "There is the camp, making due without me" he then said to his horse with a chuckle. The horse did not seem to notice, only continued to froth at the mouth and gallop towards the camp.

As the steed continued its run, the Duke pulled three scrolls of parchment from the horse's saddle bag, and placed them under his arm.

Riding into camp was harder than he had thought as well. It seemed that the Army had created a small string of forts from the nearby woods, and was slightly broken up in each of these four forts. The Lord Marshal, of course, had insisted on being in the front fort, closest to any enemies he might get his hands on. Before ever reaching the forts, several archer patrols took potshots at him, one arrow nearly scathing his new and unblemished armor, courtesy of King Trollbane's sons. He silently shook a fist at them in anger as he passed on by through a small valley.

Finally riding into the first fort he was stopped by the rear guards, questioned, and finally released only to make the same stop in the next two wooden forts. After nearly a day of hard riding, his horse stopped suddenly, nearly throwing him off of his saddle. Refusing to go any further, Tal dismounted and continued on foot towards the last fort, whose battlements lay but a hundred yards off.

Finally entering the fort, he was again confronted by the damned picket guards.

"Oi! You there boyo! Stop in the name of the Alliance!" the leading picket screamed out as he barged through the uncompleted gate. The picket, an obvious militia man was covered in dust and grime from the hard march that the army had just undergone.

Tal sighed as he prepared to explain himself once more. And the inevitable interrogation began. "Who are you, and by what rights do you have to trespass on the requisitioned land of the Alliance military forces?"

Sighing once more, he replied "I am Duke Winfield of Stranthon County of the nation of Azeroth and loyal servant of the Alliance of Azeroth"

"Sorry sir! Jus' been reports of the Undead spies lurkin' amongst our own ranks! The whole army's in paranoia, everybody thinkin' the other one is be'in an Undead bastard prepared to sell us out at any second!"

This was disturbing news that Tal had not heard of before. "Of course, the Scourge operates many agents that are living men, yet have damned themselves to the Litch King's will. Never mind me gentlemen, carry on!" he respectfully, if not wearily replied, the hard day's ride catching up to him.

"Find a cot and get some rest!" his body screamed at him. But no, he could not until he delivered his message and resumed command over his brigades. And as he winded his way through the tents, he finally found the Lord Marshal's. Walking in through the patches of cloth that were supposed to be the doors, he spotted Alaric sitting in his same old rickety wooden chair peering over a map with a swirl of command staff around him. They all turned to his direction as he limped into the tent.

"Duke Winfield! Good to see you again, and as you can see, the Army has made good progress northward. Seemed a bit hard for you to catch up eh?" the Lord Marshal said, trying to inject some good humor into what was obviously a room that was filled with a simmering discontent.

Tal nodded numbly, and then handed Alaric the papers. "Sir, a full account of the supplies in Stromguard. The foolish quartermaster 'forgot' where the army was. If you ask me sir, it is treachery within our own ranks back on the home front" he reported as if a stunned stag.

"Treachery?" Alaric replied, incredulous to the news. "What has happened now…" he said searching through the three pieces of stained parchment.

"After King Wrynn had left to secure new trade rights with Kul-Tiras, Baron Difel of Goldshire declared his throne illegitimate, and apparently ahs started a peasant uprising on the outskirts of the city. Nothing that the Royal Guard can't handle, but it will take away many of the precious resources we need for this campaign" the Duke said, still reeling from the two day ride.

Alaric said nothing, just stared at the papers. A mage, Alenphor human from the Dalaran resistance burst out "That is a complete bypass of the power of the King and his heir! This…Baron…should be hung!"

But the Lord Marshal nodded his head, and said "Bah, its just politics. Leave this idiot Baron to be. All that we now can expect is that this damned vendetta will deny us some supplies we probably never would have received in the first place anyway. Besides, its all going to blow over before King Wrynn ever gets back. His Queen is quite the diplomatist"

"Yes sire" the Duke said, confused at the Elf's strange calm in light of such dire events. He then added "Sire, I have also come across reports of several encounters with some form of resistance forming along the east coast in a relatively narrow span of land. Stromguard has lost many outposts in the past few weeks due to these mysterious attacks. King Trollbane has asked permission to 'borrow' some of your units of militia and the regulars still in the city to investigate. I believe it to be uncoordinated attacks from the Scourge, but Trollbane thinks its something else"

The Lord-Marshal pulled out a pipe, apparently given to him by some dwarf along the course of the campaign northward and puffed thoughtfully for a while before responding. "It's ok. Militia never hold the line anyway, they are next to worthless. Though I believed that their raw numbers would help us gather resources, it doesn't matter now though"

He then stood up, a slight luminescence emanating from his face (as do all Elves) and looked as if was about to give a speech.

"Commanders and generals. Lords, Barons, and Dukes, we have all traveled this perilous road together for the past month and a half. In that time, we have made three major engagements with the Scourge, and lost less than four thousand men; a feat of great accomplishment given all previous fights with large numbers of the beasts. We have past through the ruins and ashes of countless cities, towns, and hamlets. And in this time, we have brought a light back to a land that once was held as the crowing jewel of civilization. We still stand! In a land deprived of its birthrights we have returned as its prodigal sons to return the Light to this place"

Speeches will do much to boost the moral of the men, but what will the do against the enemy? And these councils of war…they do nothing but incite arguments. Tal Winfield thought to himself.

But Alaric continued "And now, as our goal finally reaches close, I have been informed that at least two other Alliance armies are converging on our position to bolster our ranks and lay siege to the Undercity. Once this symbolic place is taken, we will drive out the evil spirits and reclaim the land of Lordaeron as a nation in whole. From there, we shall travel to the Tirisfal Glades where the Scourge is likely to be in wait and completely and finally mobilized to take on our full force. Once we defeat whatever they muster there, the road to Northrend is laid bare" and as he ended his speech, looking tired from the days of strategizing, he nodded distinctly at Tal, and slowly exited the tent to his own where he would rest along with the men, for the hardest part of the campaign would now begin.

……………………………………

It was cold outside - very cold. As he stepped out of the tent, a gust of wind and swirl of snow nearly swept him off his feet. "Of course, it's a mountain you fool" he scolded himself.

In the two months that this campaign, the armies of the Alliance had made little progress. Other than his force, none had truly made it past the Altrec Mountain Range, the war bogging down into a stalemate especially on the outskirts of the Arathi Highlands and Dalaran City ruins. Earlier on, when he had made his speech he had lied. There would be no reinforcements, and perhaps from now on, no more supplies from the raw power of this new Alliance. In the beginning of the war, the Scourge was unprepared and caught of guard. Many advances had been made, but now…now, things were different.

But now that the Scourge had mobilized to meet the new threats from the south, Alaric noticed something; for the past week not a single Undead minion had been sighted, another thing of great dilemma. And just three days ago, a man had been caught in camp using dark magiks and contacting Light knows what daemons and Undead monsters. _That _had caught everybody off guard. A spy in their army? That was something the Undead had never done before.

"Perhaps they are pulling back and waiting to engage us in one climactic conflict…end the threat once and for all…" he said to himself as he donned his High-Elven armor, its once silver, green, and gold, now tainted in small dots around the shoulders by the acid rains that had fallen the other night.

And another thing that certainly disturbed him; the increasing reports of vicious attacks from purple skinned creatures and other beasts that traveled with them. Many in this land did not know of the Night Elves, or were at least led to believe in fantastic mystical tales about them. Did the Night Elves follow him over the sea after they had secured the Waters? If not, then what were those things that were so seemingly trailing this particular army?

Finally robed in warm clothing underneath his thick armor, he walked outside. The army had made its stop here yesterday, and today they would move out. Their destination; the Undercity, and finally the Tirisfal Glades to where Kel'thuzad clutched the Book of Medivh that held the so needed knowledge of how to control the Waters of Eternity. When that job was complete, the navies of Kul-Tiras would meet up with them on the shores of Tirisfal Glades, and they would travel to the beating heart of their enemy; the very reason and history behind all their pain and suffering – the Litch King – Arthas of Lordaeron and Northrend.

…………………………..

Altrec City Ruins, Lordaeron, March 22nd

An infinite sadness swirled with the ethereal wind in this place as if a ghost of the weeping people who used to live here. This was a desolate frozen desert, a place once of music, and drinking, and laughter. Now, it was a place of death, and hollow remembrance of a nation of man, become an empty vessel of its former self.

This was the once pleasant city of Alterac. It was no longer a city of course; it was a shattered ruin. During the darkest hours of the Second War, when the endless dark masses of the green skinned Orcs washed upon Lordaeron as water upon a beachhead, the King of Alterac forged in secret a union between the people of his nation and the Horde. From that moment, he sealed the fate of his people as the remaining Alliance nations responded by sending their most battle tested armies against the traitorous King Perenold. And so in a few short weeks, the nation of Aletrac had fallen into ruin.

With its riches plundered, royalty imprisoned, and all forms of self government gone, the people of Alterac never recovered. Of the once seven hundred thousand people of this nation, barely thirty thousand remained today. After the Second War ended, Lordaeron under the benevolent King Terenas Menethil's arm occupied Alterac. And so it had been for thirteen years until the time of the Scourge. In that time, Lordaeron fell along with Quel'thalas along countless souls of not only the people of those nations but their neighbors as well.

And with no one to guard their once 'occupied' territories and with no hope of ever battling back the Scourge, the bulk of the remaining people of Altarec left their nation forever to the more forgiving lands in the south. The only people that now remained in these desolate ever winter lands were rangers and bandits. People who barbarously and inhumanely made their own living.

That was the fate of the northern counties of Alterac. For those in the south, the last thirty thousand or so of its people were protected by the shield of Stromguardian, remaining Dalaran and Elven, and sometimes Gilneas forces.

Finally, after nearly three years of complete isolation from the outside world, living people had once again stepped foot in the crumbling half frozen ruins of the city.

He was the first one to enter the remains of the city; the once beautiful arches that led to the gates were now little more than rubble. He and his honor guard passed the rotted wooden gates and more than several skeletons still bearing armor from that climactic final battle that forever shattered this nation, in the streets of their city as the all too powerful Alliance forces converged on them from all sides.

As Alaric Faltron'Quel passed into the city, he barely even noticed the howling, freezing winds unlike those of the army who shivered not only in thought of the cold, but of the unbreakable silence that had for years descended on this city. Instead he focused on the solemness and sadness of their surroundings. The empty taverns and houses, farms and markets; the skeletons of once everyday people half buried in the snow; all in the name of a traitorous King! They did not even know what it was they fought for…no, it was not their fault. Their King brainwashed them into acts of betrayal, desperation, and animalism.

That riled Alaric. "I was in the Second War! I was leader of armies and navies; I fought in countless battles and melees. I saw the heart of the Orcs for what they were; mindless beasts driven by the urge to kill, maim, and conquer. And still this man, Perenold, still betrayed our holy Alliance that was created to fight for all good, just, and right. At that moment he proved that he was no better, perhaps even lower, than those animals" he said to himself.

But it did not matter now. Perenold had escaped his confinement in his house arrest during the First Purge that swept Lordaeron. Once again showing his colors, he pledged his soul (if he had one) to the Litch King, and became a Death Knight…a beast lower than any Orc that had ever lived. His betrayals to humanity were only rivaled by that of Arthas, the architect of his own nations downfall.

As he passed through the main street of the city, the army followed. "We will have to get through this as quickly as possible sire! Many are suffering from frostbite and others are falling sick rapidly! This land is cursed, and we shall be as well if we do not depart quickly" his adjutant said riding up beside him, their horses sweat now freezing into dark mats of frost upon their backs.

"Yes, yes. I guess we should leave this land as quickly as possible. Now listen to me, keep all the columns moving in short order. No stragglers, and do not pitch camp in the city or in its outskirts. The ghosts of this place will haunt us this night if we stray to far into their domain" he replied, tone as serious as he could make it. Already had many a man been possessed of hysteria and ran madly away from the camp. None of them were seen again.

The adjutant, a human boy by the name of Tilghman, nodded in obvious fear of such fairy tale ghosts that were all so real and rode off to the other commanders who would keep up the pace. Soon, they would be out of this most deathly of places and once again descend from the Altrec Mountain Range and into the lowlands of the Western Plaugelands. Within three weeks they would be in sight of the Undercity.

He stopped the obviously exhausted horse and received a remount. This fresh horse was something new. He could see its ribs showing from the thinly stretched skin over its frame. But he already knew, there was barely enough food for the men, let alone the horses who tried to feed on the dead tree bark remains of the army.

With more sadness filling him, he gently guided the horse along with his guard. They found Dethal, angry as always, tending to a broken wagon that was chocking up the all so wide main road through the city. He ordered Dethal to ride with him, and scout out a path for the army once they had escaped the confines of this ghost city.

Finally with hours of time passed, they escaped the damned city far ahead of the army, pulled a map out, and would begin sketches of the land ahead. But nay! As soon as they had left the city behind them, echoes and noises from the surrounding mountains broke the silence.

Trying to ignore the noises, or at least be on the alert, they continued up a snow covered path that once belonged to the peasants of this past nation who would use it to return meat, wood, vegetables, sugar, and other items to the market. But now, Alaric and Dethal used it as a scouting route, for their maps of this place had long been lost in the confusion of supplies that had occurred back in Stromguard.

Surrounding the city of Altrec were the mountains of the Altrec Range. The city sat smack dab right in the middle of the mountain range in a nice little basin that sometimes gave off radiating warmth. The easiest exit to the north was through the break in the mountains that they were passing through now past the Crushring Hold, an old castle that once stood superior to these lands.

Now within the very bottleneck of the break in the mountain, Alaric felt as if he was trapped, with high cliffs on either side of them. "No room if we are ambushed" someone said quietly in the background.

The grey skies contrasted perfectly with the grey rock in the cliff faces, and the grey gravel underneath the white snow.

Suddenly! Up ahead, a dull orange light escaped from a _huge_ cave on the right cliff wall. From within the cave were the noises that they had heard before. It sounded like a workshop, with high pitched voices emanating from within. Alaric held up his hand in a gesture for the others to stop. And for a moment there was complete silence from them, only observing the noises from within the massive cave. Alaric demounted, and tied his horse to a jagged rock that stuck from the side of the cliff with his special 'unbreakable' elven rope.

Slowly making his way across the small space between him and his riders, he winced as the snow crunched under his feet making a noise that sounded all too loud. He then put his body against the cliff wall, and scuttled closer to the cave until he reached the end of the wall and the beginning of the cave. He slowly turned his head around the corner to behold – a door inscribed with strange runes he had never seen before. Sensing no danger, he stood back up and walked towards the cave door. Approaching the door, he looked closer at the runes, and finally recognized them. They were basic human language, telling of something like a 'great buy'.

He then uttered one word "Goblins"

Goblins were extremely reclusive species of small green skinned kind. They scuttled around in caves, mountains, forests, plains, and just about every other type of terrain Alaric could think of. Quite simply put, goblins were everywhere! The only thing they would ever do to be seen by outsiders was to receive gold. It was the only thing goblins ever cared about, ever would care about.

Once allied with the Orcs, the goblins betrayed their former allies sensing their defeat at the end of the Second War. It was the goblin designs that had carried the Horde over the Great Sea into Lordaeron after the destruction of Stormwind in the First War. But after the stunning defeats the Orcs had suffered in part of internal civil wars, they had left the Horde and gone back to their old way of life. Since then they had revived their old ways of creating amazing technology and machines all to sell them for their all too expensive prices. The goblins were in essence just like gnomes in their lust for technology, and unrivaled in their lust for riches, money, investments, and capital.

Unsheathing his sword, Alaric slammed its hilt on the door, demanding entrance. After trying for minutes, he then proceeded to trying open the door with magic. After uttering many phrases of magic, the door stood still and resolute. He called back to Dethal and the riders "Magic sealed. Just like my cape. Hmph! I know exactly what to do to get these things out" he motioned to Dethal, who nodded bringing three golden coins in the palm of his gauntlet. He handed them to Alaric, who in turn placed them in front of the door. After about half a minute, the door itself seemed to dissolve into thousands of tiny metallic tendrils and tentacles which disappeared into the walls of the cave. In the door's wake stood a small green creature about three feet high.

"Weeeeeeelcom stranger!" it said in the usual goblin tone and pitch, continued "to our humble tinker palace here in Donavor, but you may know it as Alterac!"

Alaric stood stunned for a moment as the words flowed from the goblin's mouth, its mouth never ceasing to show either some dialogue or a sharp smile of greedy, sharp teeth. Feeling more comfortable the riders along with Dethal filed in closely behind Alaric to witness a creature none of them expected to see here in these Plaugelands.

Finally, as the creature's most annoying talk died down, Dethal came up from behind Alaric and whispered into his long ear "Sir Alaric, we may be able to purchase a quicker mode of transportation from these creatures"

"A sound idea Dethal, and I am sure that they will buy from a reasonable price seeing as how they have probably had no business for the past few years" he whispered back.

Turning back to the talkative goblin, he began his own greeting "Greetings from the Alliance good goblin. My men and I are seeking to find the fastest means of transportation you have available"

"That would be our goblin zeppelins good sir! Right this way!" the goblin once again said smiling, his ravenous half disguised looking gestures for money barely making any effect on Alaric. And so the creature led them inside the cave where an amazing workshop was setup. The goblins had huge catwalks and laboratories in the different caves that split off from the main hallway. Eventually, after passing countless cave offshoots that led to the dormitories, factories, and probably connected to other goblin outposts in the area they arrived in a huge cavernous chamber deep underground.

Near the roof of the enormous chamber Alaric spotted rows upon rows of goblin zeppelins, the same craft used to transport nearly half of the Horde across the Great Sea. The bulbous aircraft were naught more than old cloth (patched and re-patched in many places), with dusty and old ropes connected to what looked to be the hulk of a human man-o-war without the dwarven cannon, and masts.

Looking back down, Alaric noticed that the damned goblin was talking again "…and that one right there is our finest. Will cost you the plump price of 300 gold pieces! My homies here would call that expensive, but you must understand that there had been no business for a while" the goblin's smile grew even wider.

"If we can purchase all of these, then we might be able to transport the entire army over Lordamere Lake and take the fight to the Undead quicker than I thought. Though, I am beginning to believe due to these scouting reports that the Undercity is without worth, and Kel'thuzad is a greater prize…no matter, these matters shall solve themselves once we pass over the Lake. That is if I can acquire these damned balloons without trouble!" Alaric mused to himself.

"Well good goblin sir, I believe it is time we talked business" he then added.

……………….

At the northern shore of Lordamere Lake, Lordaeron, March 25th

Duran Talonfist was a Blood Elf. Four years ago he had been exiled from Quel'thalas before the Scourge attack (for reasons not truly known, but it was said to have been a crime worthy of death, not exile). He was once Ranger-General of _Quel'thallasen _forces, and he profusely believed he not the new Ranger-General Sylvanis could have held the Scourge at bay when it attacked his beloved, exiled home. But nay, he had wandered that year into Dalaran, and there became quite an esteemed wizard in but several months.

And then that week came…that horrible bloody week. It was known as the Siege of Dalaran. He had served in the Dalaran magocracy's forces, having great magic abilities so common in the mystic nation. He fought on the walls, in the streets, in the homes, workshops, and even the forbidden temples. He slaughtered hundreds of Undead in the memory of his exiled homeland which had fallen not but a month before.

After Dalaran fell to the abominable Arthas, he had no home left, and once again wandered the wilderness. After he had been rounded up with Prince Kael's resistance fighters, he served with the Sunstrider until the final battle around the Frozen Throne where he and his fighters were split off from the main force in the frantic retreat that ensued.

When he returned to this broken land, he gathered the few survivors he could and swore eternal vengeance for all those that had been killed. The oath finally converted him from the final High Elf, to the last Blood Elf convert. And now, with his underground resistance he had fought a headless enemy for three years.

Since Kael's disappearance after the Frozen Throne affair, he had no superiors and answered only to himself. Life went as it always did, their nomadic band of freedom fighters moving from one abandoned, ruins town to the next always hitting the Undead where it hurt them the most: their necropolises, and then fleeing before they were caught.

Other than food and clean water which constantly plagued his men, the greatest need that they had gone without for nearly two years was news. For all they knew, they were the last of the mortal living on the surface of Azeroth. Last they heard was that Grand Marshal Anduin Praeton had retreated from the Lordaeron northlands to the more defensible south.

This week though, would bring the much wanted news, by great irony they were about to cross paths with other freedom fighters and Blood Elves that swore that same oath that all the others had taken. Soon, they would meet Alaric'Quel's fighters.

"This damned town is giving me the creeps milord!" a voice cut through the chilly air. The town they were in was a little fishing hamlet, or at least used to be one. Now, it was a place of mourning, the many bodies of its own dead thrown into Lordamere Lake that stretched out behind them, its once pristine blue waters were filthied, polluted, and now a dark sickly green.

"This town looks the same as ever one that we stop in Gathmag" he said, deep voice hiding his regrettable past, and not hiding the unquenchable thirst for magic.

"All sticks and ashes" another voice said in the background. Duran looked back over to his men who were setting up camp in what used to be the main street of the hamlet. Mostly Blood Elves with a few humans in the mix, his men had been through what most had never imagined. Each one was a brother forged in the heat of the eternal war of vengeance that they waged.

Suddenly the men stood, looking to the water's edge. They began to shout out, pointing at the sky, eyes wide with amazement. Duran turned to see what the commotion was about. But there was nothing in the water! What were they shouting about? Suddenly, he caught the reflection that shimmered in the water. Slowly, he lifted his head to beheld a black cloud far in the distance over Lordamere Lake.

But as time passed and the cloud neared, he could start to make out different shapes and sizes from the cloud. As they neared closer, he now understood; Goblin Zeppelins.

"What in the name of the Light are goblins doing here?" he mumbled.

He ordered his men to take defencive positions, reminded them that it was the Orcs who first wielded the mighty machines of air travel, and so, as the blimps passed over them, they watched - waited.

………………..

At the Northern Shore of Lordamere Lake, May 25th

Alaric had ordered his lead zeppelin to lower first. As they neared the ruins of the old town, he could make out movement, some strange event happening in the ruins of the hamlet. And again as they passed closer to the town, his men began to shout out; there were people, some kind of people stumbling through the ruins of the hamlet. It seemed amazing enough that there were people here so close to the Undercity itself, but even more so that most of them were Blood Elves.

Their leader had identified himself as Duran Talonfist, and he had commanded his freedom fighters now for three years. He himself was a Blood Elf, and immediately pledged himself and his men to Alaric as soon as he had beheld the wonderful emanating overflow magics of the Waters of Eternity. Talonfist had given his local knowledge of the area, which helped greatly, many of the old landmarks swept away in the undead Purges.

Talonfist then explained how the Forsaken were a splinter cell of the Scourge. They bowed not the Litch King, but to their overlord and mistress; Sylvanis Windrunner, the same elf woman that had commanded the defenses of Quel'thalas almost three years to this day.

According to Talonfist, the Forsaken were far different than the Scourge. Each one of their ranks retained their own individuality to a degree, and was far more capable of thinking than the average reanimated zombie. And that was why they had to clear them out for good. They were perhaps a greater threat in the long run than even the Scourge, for it was rumored that Sylvanis and her Forsaken lackeys were dabbling in the arts of the same Plague that nearly brought Lordaeron to its knees before it ever fought the main Scourge.

Now equipped with the knowledge required, the will, the strength of arms, and its other abilities, the Army of the Durnhold, nearly 80,000 strong inevitable march to its greatest battle yet. Its vast ranks held men, dwarf, gnome, and elf. It possessed the cultures of every nation and county in the land. It was armed with magic, the sword, lance, of people from across the civilized world. It was a force like none other ever mustered for such an action of war.

Within the day, (the day after the army had organized itself back on the ground and taken the zeppelins apart for travel) of the march, the old Capitol was in sight, and it was rather a tragic sight indeed. Much more so than the pitiful city of Alterac.

Above in the bird empty skies lay a vast overcast of dark clouds, easily not natural. The carpet of darkness was broken in several places by the strength of the sun, yet not enough to completely light the city. Ah the city! Below, lay the apex of what had been the civilizations of old.

There it was. Once the jewel of the world, now the second most hated place. It was hard to imagine that such a beautiful and imposing place could fall so much into such a dank, death infested, festering pit such as what lay before Alaric.

As they passed over the hill, the entire city came into vision. The once great towers of polished stone and metal that soared into the air as if invincible now were crestfallen, their remains poking into the sky like jagged spears. The Citadel and Royal Palace, once the home of the Menethil dynasty was completely razed; its tattered ruins splayed like such a dead animal across the square that once was its foundation. Below the raised hill that once allowed the Palace to preside over the city lay the various battlements and layers of wall that separated the aristocratic chambers from the everyday people that now stood with hollowness, a seemingly desolate blackness now casting their once bright features into the abyss. And around those areas were the everyday people's districts that stretched for kilometers on in. Those that were not destroyed in the fires that engulfed the city now all had some kind of structural damage and were far beyond any hopes of repair furthering the depressing sight of the city of the dead.

The Capitol had once been one of the greatest cities in the world, challenging those of Dalaran, Silvermoon, and especially Stormwind. But now it was nothing. A place of emptiness to the remaining living mortals of the world. It was void of anything, was a hole; a representation of the absolute dark, that contrasted that of the Light.

"There is nothing for us here" Alaric said slowly, gazing over the ruins of the city.

"But milord, we still must take this place. It would be a symbolic victory, and bring the thousands of Lordaeronians in hiding to our army" Duke Winfield said sure of himself riding up beside Alaric as columns of footmen passed by.

"Perhaps you are right. But right now, all I wish to do is punish those that did this to this once beautiful city. I lived here once, did you know?"

"No Lord, I did not" the Duke replied uncomfortably.

"Yes, I lived here for a great many years. Somewhere along the lines of fifty I believe. But it was so long ago, and I have not thought of it since. But now is not the time for soft words. Now is the time for action!" he pulled his rune blade from its sheath and quickly rode onward to the head of the footman column.

Dethal, trailing behind Alaric before silently moved up beside the Duke who asked "Whats his problem?"

All Dethal replied was "His blood is up good Duke. His blood is up"

……………………….

Day 8, Battle of the Undercity, Lordaeron

"Move those demolitions teams forward!" someone screamed. Behind him, four dwarfs that held an intricate looking device ran forward, placing the bomb and setting the fuse. All the footmen and dwarfs then dove for cover at the last second before the bomb went off blowing bits of rubble across their armored bodies and cover.

Genn Blackswift raised his newly forged sword and ran into the hole in the wall caused by the demo team's explosion. The other footmen in the room followed him, most tripping at one point over the ruins and rubble that lay across the floor.

They were in the late North Tower of the Guard Ramps, an outer fortification for the city when it was in the hands of men. The Tower was one of those that used to stretch into the sky, and held some of Lordaeron's most elite guard. Genn ordered his men to hold position while he scouted out the bombed out area from the top of the still intact (it was rare to find an intact tower in such devastation so they acted as focal points for lookouts) Tower. He ran up the short flights of stairs, to the top of the Tower, and beheld the sight of a great battle.

As far as Genn knew, the Army had invaded the city at four different points, all encountering heavy resistance from the creatures known as the Forsaken. At first, they didn't look at that different than the normal horrors they experienced from the Scourge, but seemingly enough these things thought for themselves and did not rely on sheer numbers to achieve their ends. Then, things got truly frightening.

As the battle passed from day to day, Genn's battalion of nearly a thousand men had been whittled down to no more than two hundred in due of the feints, counterattacks, mass deceptions, and other tricks the Forsaken were pulling out of their sleeve.

The Army had split into four wings, each designated to capture one of the tunnels that led to the actual Undercity, which was a sprawling maze of tunnels underneath the Capitol. So far, none had been captured, and thousands had died.

He had led his men through the ruins of the Capitol and fought without more than twenty hours of sleep in the past eight days. Genn could see on the faces of the men that this urban fighting was taking its toll. The men were losing their resolve, becoming weaker with each passing moment. Almost no rations had come through the past several days, and clean water was scarce in this damnable place.

But now Genn's mind warped back into reality. From the blown open rubble that he and his men charged through, four Forsaken awaited them. A vicious melee ensued, the Forsaken being much better swordsman than any Scourge underling.

But in the end the Forsaken were dispatched, and here they were! Just fifty yards down this alleyway was their objective, the massive tunnel that led into the Undercity!

Outside of the Capitol the Alliance artillery was firing; mortar shells whining downwards and destroying more in the already devastated city, more dwarven technology, their Siege Tanks, rumbling down the streets and unleashing devastating barrages on any occupied buildings. Behind the mortar teams vast regiments were forming up in neat squares preparing to rush into the city.

In the streets, columns of men moved back and forth being directed by sergeants. Elven and human mages cast great waves of ice and fire upon the enemies entrenched positions, but to no avail as for every one Forsaken banished, another five would replace it. And something that struck utter paralyzing terror into his heart; the Forsaken had summoned feral beasts and Infernals upon the city.

Infernals were demons, once part of the Burning Legion, now rouge after the Legions downfall. The immense fiery beings were juggernaughts, slaughtering everything in their way.

But below him, he spotted a ruined church that used to belong to the common folk out here. The Tunnel to the Undercity would be somewhere around there if the reports from the Blood Elf named Talonfist were correct. Sliding down the railings he met back up with his shattered battalion.

Again Genn raised his sword in a gesture for his men to follow him, and they charged. A sudden wave of arrows cut many down, and Genn ordered the men to take cover.

From behind the broken stained glass from a former church of the Light, Forsaken archers and ranged attackers continued their volleys on his pinned down men. Just then, someone called out his name. He looked back to see Gramath, his personal courier that he had sent to Command to receive orders on what to do next, and ask for relief for his overrun position.

"Lord! Command orders a full pullback out of the city!" Gramath exclaimed, face pumped full of blood from running the two mile distance there and back.

"What? After all the work we have accomplished getting to this point? How dare them?" he screamed out over the noise of the wounded men.

"I don't know sir!" Gramath replied, also yelling over the noises of battle that surrounded them "But the word was that the losses have been too heavy to sustain! We have lost entire companies and can't keep up this kind of attack!"

Genn's eyes filled with tears. They had endured suffering beyond belief in the past 8 days. And for nothing! Not one man had set foot in the Undercity! Nobody had even been able to glance at the heart of the infestation that plagued their land. And now, they would retreat. But the Lord-Marshal was a shrewd person. Perhaps he would revise his strategy and counterattack. Perhaps they could still take the city…

…………………….

Alliance Forces High Command, Outside the Capitol

The could not take the city. There would be no more attacks, only a orderly fall back. The utter carnage and slaughter had drained men like no other offensive battle he had ever coordinated. It was Alaric'Quel's greatest failure…his bane.

As he moved from one end of the command tent to the other, the commanders around him would fall silent, seeing that the Elf was truly defeated in all possible ways.

The strategy was sound. Move in quickly, efficiently, and above all in strength. They hadn't expected; one the sheer number of Forsaken within the city (a mistake never again to be made) and two the key factor: the Forsaken summoned rouge demons to do their dirty work.

But it did not matter now. The Army had been bloodied; nearly fifteen thousand men out of the ranks, but it had by no means been destroyed or hampered beyond use. They would simply have to go _around _the city to get to the Tirisfal Glades where Kel'thuzad lay in wait. It would take more time, but they would eventually reach their goal.

Right now, the only thing they could do was to calm the men, reinstate moral, and prepare for a long, hard march. But across the broken plains where the spirits of damned men lay in the once pristine Tirisfal Glades, Kel'thuzad was warned by his master of this so called 'Lord-Marshal', this Alaric. He had finally caught the eye of the Litch King, and now, Kel'thuzad and all the Scourge in his command were now commanded to seek out, and destroy the heart of the Alliance's war effort; Alaric'Quel, the mysterious and powerful Blood Mage that had appeared from no where with seemingly enough power finish what Illidan could not; undo the Scourge.

Bonus Profile: The Book of Medivh

For long had this fabled book been sought by mages, wizards, madmen, and creatures of darkness. In the later years of his life, the powerful Magus and Guardian of Tirisfal, Medivh, spent much time casting his knowledge in the Book of the Guardians (later renamed the Book of Medivh) which held all the written knowledge of the Guardians. Although he never completed it before his complete possession by the demon Sargaeres, it held a great many powerful spells, the literal history of magic, and even secrets that only the _Tirrassalen _or Guardians knew of the world.

The Guardians of Tirisfal were an ancient organization set up to protect the world from a renewed invasion by the Burning Legion. After each Guardian had died, a new one would be chosen and endowed with incredible powers. Medivh was the last of the Guardian's, and the most split faced to most people. During his life, Medivh worked for the good of all, fulfilling his secret war against the Burning Legion. But as he grew older, the specter of Sargaeras (which will be discussed later) that lay dormant in his body, awoke, and took utter control of the old man's consciousness and body.

It used Medivh's awesome powers and the knowledge in the Book to open the Dark Portal to Draenor, the Orcish world, and the First War ensued. After Medivh's death, the Book was taken to Dalaran where it was believed to be safe. And for nearly twenty years it sat protected in a magical case in the city.

Until the time of the Siege of Dalaran when the city was breached and the former mage Kel'thuzad took the Book as his own and used it to open up another portal to the Twisting Nether and begin the Second Invasion of Azeroth. In since time, Kel'thuzad has been granted control of the Scourge's forces in northern Lordaeron and has spent much time reading the words of the Book, and learning its knowledge. And until now, no one but the supposed prophet of the Light, Kelen, have discovered that in between the words lie a certain history of the Well of Eternity and a way to control them…

(So, what did you guys think of that chapter? Things are heating up, and soon a climactic confrontation between Kelthuzad and Alaric will occur, and old rivals will return to throw some twists into the story. Well, hope you enjoyed this chapter, and I am expecting reviews since there have been none for quite a while now. Anyway, the next chapter shouldn't be so long. In truth, this chapter was actually a MEGA-CHAPTER, but I decided to shorten it, if you can call it that , and split it up. So there, it shouldn't take long to get the next chappa out. Until next time guys, OmegaTrooper OUT!)


	19. Chapter 17: The Raging Storm

Chapter 17: The Raging Storm

3 Miles Past Brill, April 6th, Northern Lordaeron

_It was once a beautiful, lush place; these plains of northern Lordaeron called the Tirisfal Glades. The great forests, rivers, creeks, valleys, canyons, grassy plains, and gentle hills continued for miles upon miles across the continent. From the Castle Whitefort where the Menathil Dynasty ruled in their glorious city to the grand spires of the circular Dalaran, to the melding of nature and civilization of the Elven nation of Quel'thalas the lands of Lordaeron reached. This place had been the first harboring of civilization, the ancient states like Arathor and Zul'aman that had once warred over these most pristine lands. There used to be vast forests that stood unopposed, every once in a while with a village or farm that broke their flow across the plains. _

_But then the great age of war had come. Continuous invasions and battles had made the land weary, and in the time when it most needed to heal itself came the horrible and terrifying Plague that wiped out so many people. After the Plague that killed nearly a quarter of the entire continent's populace came the Undead Scourge; the army of endless damned men, walking corpses, and other abominations. From the burial grounds of those who died from the Plague zombies, reanimated skeletons and far more utterly terrible things had risen from the ground and overwhelmed any resistance, and by the time the Plague and Scourge had reached the Capitol, most of Lordaeron had already fallen into the darkness._

_For a while later there was still coordinated resistance, but in the end it was stamped out by the very one whom had turned on them; their own Prince and soon to be King, Arthas Menethil. And thus this Scourge reached across the plains and forests to even the remote and isolated Quel'thalas and even there spread its inevitable destruction._

The freezing wind cut through his bulky armor chilling him to his core. Even in spring now the northlands were a cold place. But they were not always this cold. Before the Scourge this place had received annual warmth with the time of year. But since the arrival of the Undead in this place many pollutants and smog from their ungodly deeds, and so had turned the very weather against them.

They had just turned past the North King's Road that led around the Capitol and through the village of Brill. After leaving behind the Capitol no real resistance had been encountered from any Forsaken.

But once again reports of isolated incidents and casualty reports from a stray undead zombie or ghoul would eventually reach their way into his command post. After a two day fight at Brill that cost them nearly five hundred good men mostly from the Stromguard Brigades, they continued north once more under a relentless march.

Long had they shed anything not needed in trade for speed, and were now marching on the bare essentials. As they passed farther north, the signs of life were less and less. Eventually by the time they had passed Brill several miles north of the Capitol, all the trees, grass, bushes, and everything once colorful and green were dead and rotting. But a taint ran through this land. The sky was a never ending patchwork of broiling green clouds and strange things seemed to be happening to the land.

In the few patches of land not covered by the Blight, grotesque mockeries of live things grew, huge poisonous mushrooms, plant life that on several occasions had tried to bite a chunk out of a surprised footman, and rabid warped creatures that would ever so often grab or swoop down at one of his men.

And so the army grew ever so cautious in light of such horrible monstrosities. Eventually, the men had become accustomed to them, and knew their way around them.

But it had only taken a few miles up the road from Brill that they encountered a true attack…

"1st and 6th Companies forward!" Alaric screamed over the noise of the battle. Behind him a neat square of footmen, shields raised to protect from the volleys of arrows, slowly scuttled forward.

After pitching camp, a huge dust plume was spotted by a scout rising in the near north. It was quickly identified as a Scourge army, a large tangle of walking corpses, beasts, and other horrors, marching straight toward them. And at noon, they had engaged, the first moderate wave of skeletons rushing forward.

Behind him, the 1st and 6th Companies rushed into the fray but twenty yards from Alaric, their perfect formation breaking as they each drew on an individual target. And, as the two opposites clashed, the dogs of war set loose. The clanging of metal screams of men, battle cries, and frantic orders all resonated through the hilly partially forested area.

From atop the hill he was on, Alaric could spot the waves of Undead as they passed from over the hill directly in front of the Army. Whatever command structure the Scourge had in this area was foolishly enough sending its forces in piecemeal. The battle had gone well all day, and even better news had arrived from the Dalaran front. Anduin Praeton's 7th Army had broken through the stalemate that had so engulfed nearly the rest of the Alliance forces! Even now he was marching his men at a near death giving pace during the day, using his mages to teleport them vast distances at night, and sleep only for four hours in the morning.

Finally…the slaughter had ended. Hundreds of now permanently dead corpses of the Undead lay lifeless on the grassy plains. It had taken the entire day. His men had lodged themselves atop a steep hill and waited for the attack from the Scourge force to come. It was smaller than first anticipated, but instead of waiting for another force to join them as Alaric had assumed, they attacked. But sending their waves up piecemeal and without backup, there had been a slaughter. Nearly all of the Undead that had attacked them now were nothing more than the carcasses that lay in front of him just outside the defensive trenches where the 1st and 6th Companies had jumped out of the attack the Undead in hand to hand combat.

"My liege, the foul Undead have been beaten back! What do we do with the corpses?" an elder footman said bowing before his approached.

"Burn them; all of them. Remember Stratholme, and how they burned the town to prevent the corpses of the dead from rising once again. We must remember that lesson" he replied in a firm tone, and abruptly turned away.

During the sweeping of the Plague, it had become apparent that Stratholme, just like Andorhol, (another city in Lordaeron) that the intangible quantities of dead were to rise soon, so the city officials came to the difficult decision to burn the cities, leaving nothing but black ashes and skeletal remains.

It was quite baffling how such a sizable Undead force was to be wasted like today. He didn't understand; the fight had been to easy, almost as if a test of abilities. But the sheer size of it couldn't dictate a mere skirmishing force, or a scouting party. Then what was it?

Alaric returned to his command post, and prepared the next set of orders for the commanders. They had now been in the Tirisfal Glades for nearly 2 weeks, and there was still no sign of Kel'thuzad or his Scourge.

"We will hunt them to the ends of this earth…" Alaric stated to his horse, as he climbed back on after drafting the next set of orders. "Soon, we shall find Kel'thuzad. The foolish mongrel can't hide forever. And then, the circle of revenge shall nearly be complete"

………………………….

April 8th, Northern Lordaeron, heart of the Tirisfal Glades.

They were coming. That morning, Alaric had ridden up to see in person what the scouts had described as an ever stretching carpet of blackness. And indeed, what he saw very well resembled that description.

An endless mass of skeletons, corpses, damned men and necromancers, abominations, ghouls; Crypt Lords that led massive contingents of strange ritualistic nerubian spiders into battle, Death Knights that held control over their minions, the out-worldly daemonic Nathrazim, a race of powerful demons that lived on the blood of their victims and more horrible monstrosities that were the Scourge. Even the skies themselves were black with gargoyles and frost wyrms, and even the feared destroyers.

Immediately he had called a Council of War with all his generals and commanders. Everyone from Dethal to Duke Winfield, from Eolas to Arrius the Paladin from Kalimdor, was there. This Council was something he had never done before, usually just going into battle impromptu or planning with small groups. But with so much of the Scourge focusing its attention here, there was no possible way to plan everything with a small group, and as soon as the last commander filed in, they began.

"How much time until the Scourge reaches our position?" Alaric said loudly, walking into the huge command tent.

"By the rate they are moving sire, we estimate it will take another five hours for their advance units and skirmishers to merge with our lines of battle" Dethal began. "We have presumed that the front line is going to take place here, along Wallowford Creek running parallel to our lines and theirs"

Alaric nodded, looking to the piece of parchment that Dethal had laid out on the old wooden table in the middle of the tent.

Another commander, Arrius, spoke up "We have possibly as many as fifty five thousand men able to fight. The rest are sick or wounded from the previous battles and long marches we have endured. Estimates from the scouts and my knights tell us that the Scourge has employed over a hundred thousand within its fold. We shall be gravely outnumbered" he warned, voice dipping in caution.

"Numbers do not concern me. The average footman will be able to rival three, if not even four skeleton warriors in combat. There are records that prove such claims. I am more concerned about their spell casters…"Alaric said slowly.

Karl Steinwolfe, an accomplished wizard from Old Dalaran that had also accompanied Alaric suggested "Our spell casters can be split in two for we have sufficient numbers of them. One group can stay on the front lines and back up the infantry. The others can seek out the enemy's leaders and majik users and eliminate them"

Alaric nodded, the prospect sounding good.

"Milord, General Anduin Praeton's latest dispatches from his runners indicate that he should be within out camp in weeks, if not days! Should we not wait him out to strengthen our numbers? And what of the strange rumors of savage attacks along the coast line?" another spoke, incredulous.

"No, Captain. There is not enough time to disengage. There is no turning back now, for we have reaped the whirlwind and now we must traverse into the most dangerous parts of it. There is no return now, no reinforcements. What is to be done is to be done without the help of outsiders. About the attacks along the coastline…I have no evidence to support whatever these strange attacks may be. Perhaps nothing more than Naga or Mur'gul incursions"

"But milord, they are reaching further inland! And the last time we received news about such things was nearly two weeks ago! Could this new menace be right now upon our very flanks?" the despairing Captain responded.

"There is nothing we can do about this new threat now. We shall have to deal with it after" Alaric shortly held up his gauntlet in an order to drop the subject.

"Sire! What about their damned frost dragons and gargoyles! Did you not see what they did to the men at Tarren Mill?" another commander cried out.

The outburst hit home. Alaric had not thought about how to defend against the behemoths and monsters of the sky. The riflemen would be heavily engaged at the front line, and they would be counting on reserve battalions to fill any holes the enemy might make. The gyrocopters he used were but fancy scouting trinkets capable of almost no damage. So how to counter the threat from the sky…

"Summon Thoradin Bludaxe! He and his Gryphon Riders shall counter this threat with the backup of several anti-air regiments.

It took not long for the stout and grubby little dwarf the enter the room screaming curses at those who would try to direct him. Finally meeting Alaric, he bowed slowly, and kept a cautious eye out at him. Thoradin was one of the Bluduaxes', a line that descended straight from the Great Elven-Dwarf War, mellenia ago. His kin still harbored a cautious hatred for the Elves, even if he did respect Alaric. His Gryphon Rider guild had just arrived from Aerie Mountain but a month ago, and had not had the time to prove itself yet.

"Yes, Lord-Marshal? Do you require my services o' those of my Riders?" he said, the average deep, raspy, and hard to understand linguistics of his race flowing from his mouth.

"Quite so, General Bludaxe. The Scourge dominates the skies, and we cannot have control of the ground with such a threat from above. Your Gryphon Riders _must_ not allow them to gain control. If the situation is bad enough, at least try and capture their attention as more of a threat than us"

The dwarf smiled widely, the outburst of emotion clear under the long white beard he sported. "Ah, a good fight lads! Finally, time for me and my Riders to prove themselves!"

"Yes, now lets see if we can all pass this greatest of tests…" Alaric's mind echoed deep in the back of his mind.

Outside, he could hear the approaching drums. The time had come…

…………………….

The two armies maneuvered towards each other like huge, slow beasts preparing to pounce on their prey. With the black mountains lunging into the sky in the distance all around them, and the now the darkening sky, the great battle about to begin.

Kel'thuzad stood atop a round block of stone, overseeing the deployment of his Scourge. All around, the dark mass of Undead moved forward. Like a ocean of black or rotting flesh, the front lines continued onward marching upon anything that got in their path. When they had reached the creek, they piled on top of each others bodies to get across, eventually making a bridge from corpses.

On the other side of the barren field, Kel'thuzad spied the shining mass of his enemy. All the pageantry and pomp of the humans, the ingenious of the dwarven machines and the soft glowing elven priests as they ran about the thin lines forming in the distance. Shining knights in their amazing plate armor rode around in the distance. The long columns of footmen now in formation, also advancing. With banners flying, and their wills set, the only enemy that had come this far prepared to fling itself into battle. The entire history, ideals, and culture of the Eastern Kingdoms was over there across the deep creek.

The soul that Kel'thuzad once held within his spirit was long gone, a self inflicted prisoner to the Litch King's will. The Litch King had held his end of the bargain though, and in the Sunwell, his remains were bathed, and formed his new, invincible and shining form; the great glory that was his eternal life in undeath.

"My lord! The humans are in range. Our wagon minions are itching to let loose their considerable…payload" a Crypt Lord's amazingly deep and rasped voice suddenly cut through the silence that had descended upon the Litch's mind.

The Crypt Lords were perhaps some of the greatest warriors incorporated in the Scourge. Standing at nearly eleven feet tall, these gigantic beetle-like monsters were the reborn ancient betrayer Kings of Ajol-Nerub, the ancient Spider Kingdom of Northrend that had so given the Litch King much trouble before his war against Lordaeron.

The two armies stood still for that moment. On the other side of the battlefield, the humans and elves prayed to the Light, and their religions. The dwarves polished and cleaned their axes and blunderbuss barrels for the last time before the great plunge.

On his side though, every underling stood still, passive; awaiting the order to advance. He then uttered "Let them taste the fury of the Scourge" and instantly, hundreds of wagons let loose their payload; flaming, bloated, disease ridden corpses, stuffed full with the black powder the dwarfs had named 'gunpowder' buried deep within as to prevent an explosion immediately.

It was a sight to behold. The hundreds of smoke trails filled the sky as the wagons launched their cargo deep into the lines of the Alliance, killing many with either the noxious clouds the bodies contained, or the explosions that charred a great many footman.

The Alliance answered back: a barrage of weaponry that ranged from their amazing siege tanks to the more primitive ballistae and trebuchets. The great rolling rocks crushed many of the Undead creatures as the ballistae's long arrows impaled a great many before plummeting into the ground, and of course the incinerating shot of the siege tanks that immolated many of his minions.

By now, a great smoke was descending upon the battlefield, and Kel'thuzad ordered the first wave forward.

………………………….

At the front line filled with choking dust and smog, the creatures of the Scourge dashed forward, their first line nearly two thousand strong. All along the line of engagement, human and elven archers along with dwarven riflemen readied themselves, and let loose a torrent of arrows and lead balls. In instants many of the Undead were cut down.

But the fanatical obedience of the creatures persisted, and they clawed their way over the bodies of their fallen comrades, many of them oozing blood or other substances from wounds as they continued their charge.

Eventually, the two forces met, and in a decisive hand to hand battle, the weakened creatures of the Scourge were defeated. And so both armies slowly started to move forward, eventually to meet in the middle of the battlefield were the great carnage that would decide the day would take place.

The sky had turned nearly black from the arrows that rained death from the sky. The riflemen battalions continued at the front of the army, firing walls of lead into the waves of Undead as they advanced. When their blunderbusses were to be reloaded after their shot, they quickly took cover behind the footmen.

As the two titanic forces moved ever closer together, the human lines spaced out to prevent more casualties as the skeleton archer's aim was heightened by the closing in humans. The footmen and other shield bearing soldiers raised their shields to absorb the blow of the arrows, which would many times penetrate the hard iron of the shield. Other's shields were so filled with arrows that it looked like porcupines were sticking to the shield.

In the skies too the battle raged. The awe inspiring frost wyrms and insidious gargoyles fought the brave and glorious dwarven gryphon riders that belong to Bludaxe. Yet the focus of Alaric'Quel was here, on the ground.

And finally, out in the distance of the far left flank, a muffled _"Huzza!" _went up as the footmen regiments on the left slammed straight into the Scourge's right flank. On the opposite side of the field, the Undead let forth their own howls to dishearten his men: those Undead too, began a charge straight towards his portion of the line.

Alaric had dismounted the air to filled with arrows and other missiles. But seconds ago, four of his Guard had tumbled off their horses, the iron tipped arrows protruding from the bloody holes in their armor.

By now, all of his commanders had taken places in the lines. He himself had ended up in a regiment of four hundred elven archers, behind the long, snaking line of human pikes.

No longer was he in command of the entire Army, just this immediate portion of his surroundings. The battle was now up to the commanders and captains in the heart of the chaos.

To the far left the lines had already met where those regiments had charged. All along the rest of the front though, the men remained stationary, awaiting the Scourge's already approaching charge. Behind, more battalions were assembling, preparing to meet with the already five hundred yard thick line.

Although he was somewhere near the middle of the entire mile long line, to both sides he looked the armor clad soldiers stretched in their thick line, whereas the Scourge mirrored that action, yet with a far thicker line. Alaric could not even see the end of the Scourge's forces; they just kept stretching on even to the distant mountain range.

His mind snapped back to attention as he focused on the solid mass of Undead charging straight at him, their ungodly screams and cries for blood overpowering anything his men could resolve.

As the unending line of death approached, he held up his arm, and waited for the right time. "_Thalen dalas morch da shathua_!" (Remember what you stand for, and you shall prevail!) He shouted out to his elven archers in their native tongue.

Closer…the darkness came closer…the never ceasing, never ending, always stretching line of doom approached with frightening speed. In this moment, everything seemed still. Alaric looked around, seeing the greatest detail on even the most insignificant thing.

On his armor, he noticed the dirt splatters near his foot plating, the small tarnishes near the shoulder pads. On the faces of his Blood Elven warriors, the look of desire to kill, and the lust for revenge unquenchable. He looked upon the faces of the scared, and unsure human pike men and footmen as they turned about, looking for reassurance, and perhaps some way for an impossible escape from the inevitable storm about to hit them. To the farther fore, he saw now with clear eyes the mindless expression on the ghouls, yet he saw behind that white orb that was its eyes, saw the will of something greater controlling it. He saw the expressions of thousands of things, all the emotions and senses all compacted into that small few second opening, before the greatest storm of all.

And then, all suddenly came back to life. The movement faster than before, the senses now losing their peak, numbness sinking in. "_Nivodas, tor dash! FALAS_!" (300 yards! FIRE!) He screamed at the top of his lungs, and in that instant, the amazing skill of the ranger-archers released their notched arrows into the air, joining them with the volley let loose by thousands of others.

As the arrows arced lazily in the air, the pike men leveled pikes and spears, footmen raised shields, and all braced for the impact.

The arrows so numerous as they were did not need to be aimed. As the thousands of arrows fell upon the charging beasts, thousands of their own fell. Sometimes as many as a hundred arrows would penetrate the soft, rotting flesh of an abomination, bringing it down upon its own. The entire first hundred yards of the Scourge's line collapsed at once, as the thousands of arrows descended upon them.

Yet behind them the rest kept coming. At point blank range, artillery, whether mortars, siege tanks, ballistae, or trebuchets opened fire, thousands more collapsing under the withering barrage.

Yet the mindless obedience of the Scourge continued! At least a hundred thousand continued their charge, more and more arrows falling upon them. And finally, the two main bodies collided; the pikes penetrating countless more thousands, killing them slowly, yet the wave continued to bury itself deep within the entrenched Alliance forces.

Alaric stared wide eyed as the entire line of pike men in front of him was overtaken by the immense numbers. They were simply crushed down beneath the weight of the Scourge's force as grains of sand under the tide of the sea.

Again he ordered a volley, and again the arrows behind the melee fighters pummeled into the Undead.

He looked out across the battlefield from his heightened position. In the distance, far beyond the endless ranks of Undead, a pale green light appeared. "Kel'thuzad!" Alaric almost burst out. But the Litch was not preparing to launch a crippling spell directly against his men. Instead, the damned being released the light into the air and all too suddenly, the sky twisted under the green light's presence.

Where the thin beam of light hit the overcast sky, the clouds swirled, and finally broke open. Green flame burst forth from the clouds, comets. The green tinted flame on the comets bored their way through the air and smashed themselves into the ground after a short fall. In the wake of the explosion from the comet, gigantic beings of green flame and rock lumbered, standing up from the ball position they had assumed while falling from the sky. "Infernal…" Alaric spat. Another factor had entered the battle.

"Sire, necromancers have been spotted just to the east of your position. They are wreaking havoc on Duke Winfield's forces! We must have permission to relieve them!" a single voice was singled out. Alaric looked over his shoulder and saw in-between a line of advancing footmen a lone spellcaster accompanied by a mage that was still mounted, a protective shield of blue mana around them protecting from the showers of arrows.

Alaric nodded, and turned back to the battle. The Undead had created a small pocket of control in his line, but ten meters in front of him. Frantically, he waved for the advancing regiment of footmen into the breach in their line. More huzzas filled the air as the footmen charged led by a lone man in a jewel adorned armor helmet with a blue plume, and mithril vest; certainly a noble of high esteem and wealth.

"Push them back! Push them back!" Alaric yelled out, his voice going horse. He himself broke free of the compact square cluster of archers, lifted his hand, and cast a fire spell upon the dozens of ghouls and nerubians coming straight for him. The flame cast incinerated most of them, yet those that could still more kept coming. Unsheathing his rune blade, he charged forward, the lone warrior in a now twenty yard pocket now in Undead hands that was still expanding.

He slashed at an abomination standing haplessly in front of him, the infected blood spewing all over its comrades. He twirled around, and brought his blade straight down on a ghoul's skull, cracking the entire head in two. Yet in his agitated battle, he soon realized his foolish mistake. He was surrounded, almost about to give his last fight to the death, when the shell of a man in the blue plume broke through the wall that had surrounded him. The noble swung its sword in a wide arc that nearly skimmed Alaric's shoulder blade, slicing a skeleton warrior in half. Under the hard to see visor of his helmet, Alaric nodded, not seeing the man's face, and turned about to continue the fighting.

Soon, the entire regiment had swarmed into the pocket, and a vicious melee had ensued. Cutting, blocking, and slashing, became a quick rhythm to Alaric. Before him, a massive abomination, a 'butcher' as some called the thing made its presence noticed as it swept down with a sickle, slicing four footmen in half, geysers of their blood shooting into the air.

'Butchers' were rarely ever seen, and only used to guard special doorways and the hierarchal structure. These massive creatures looked more like rock golems more than any abomination. The huge creature with its three arms, one wielding a butcher knife, one a sickle, and one a mace, moved fast as well, cutting down another seven footmen before anyone could even try and encircle the beast. As the footmen hacked and slashed at its feet, a ballista in the distance took aim at the sixteen foot tall creature that towered above their own, and fired, the long wooden spike driving itself deep within the creature's brain. The 'butcher' let out a fearsome, yet saddening last cry, and fell over, crushing ghouls and skeleton warriors.

All of a sudden, half a dozen footmen were lifted into the air, their screams of terror and surprise stunning those that fought near. As he focused his vision, Alaric could see that those warriors had been impaled by the subterranean tentacles that Crypt Lords wielded. The impaled warriors fell back to the earth with a bone crunching thud, dead. More men rushed to his right where the Crypt Lord had been spotted. It sported a grand head piece over its thorax, and had strange blue sapphires embedded in its exoskeleton shell. Alaric, with the others, ran forward, and began to hack at the huge creature.

Attacking its carapace did nothing, only eventually revealed a little of its green blood. Those footmen that got near the front of the monster were reduced to a red pulpy material by the 'thing's' bloodthirsty claws. Alaric, in the pace of the moment jumped under the creatures hairy belly, and drove his sword deep into its stomach, pulled up, down, side to side, and eventually, thick green ooze splattered out, covering his helmet. The Crypt Lord's killing spree had ended, and as it collapsed, Alaric narrowly escaped from being crushed under the two ton creature.

He felt hands pulling him back. A group of human militia and footmen dragged him against his own will towards the safety of the inner line, where the fighting had not yet reached. Alaric struggled, but as soon as he spotted the deep gash in his armor's chest plate, he understood.

"We cannot be losing our leaders in this chaos" he thought solemnly. But then, all of a sudden, a crowd of runner boys appeared, spotting Alaric. They let loose a massive wave of cries and pleas from their commanders 'The line is thinning, we need reinforcements' 'Out of arrows, have lost nearly half of my men' 'Outnumbered at least seven to one, requesting a fall back to the woods behind', and more.

And by his total surprise, he spotted Dethal riding hard on his stead, protected by the same blue magic shield as the mage had protected the spell breaker. Dethal, spotting him, leapt off the horse that was going at full speed, and lunged toward Alaric.

"My lord! Our forces are outnumbered at nearly every interval. The entire line is slowly falling back, and you must do so as well! I have met with Arrius, and we learned that General Praeton is but a mile away and moving here at full speed. His cavalry have already arrived on the field, and have helped us disengage. You must fall back! After our forces meet up with those of Praeton's we can successfully surround Kel'thuzad, and take what we need!" he shouted out, face covered in the grime of battle. Two hours had already passed, and Alaric had not noticed any of it.

Stunned by both the news and the combat he had just endured, he stood still for a few seconds and finally replied "Very good! We should carefully proceed within the cover of the trees. Kel'thuzad will think he has us on the run, and will pursue without second thinking, and then we can flank and cut off his escape route with Praeton's newly arrived force"

Dethal nodded, whistled for his elven bred steed, and galloped back to his portion of the line. Alaric now looked over his shoulders to left and right. Many men were running for their lives, breaking formation and combat. But most were pulling back in order, a perfect staged 'retreat'.

………………………….

The light that was blocked by those black clouds eventually subsided. Day passed into night, as the blazing orange sun passed beneath the horizon, and the silver disk that was the moon rose. There were men stationed on the borders of the forest, ambushing anything that the Scourge dared send into the dark death trap. The night was a lightless one, lit only by the fires that were produced by each opposing army. Yet, the flames that spewed forth light for the Alliance were only visible when you got near them, for they were camped deep within the forest that night. Even the infernals that had wreaked havoc earlier that day had dissipated their spirit energies only able to manifest themselves in this world for a short time.

Alaric left many Elves on the borders of forest, ambushing anything the Kel'thuzad dared to send in such thick darkness. And so a lull grew in the battle, a quiet undeclared peace settled over the fields where so many were slain.

But there would not be peace for the rest of the night. Soon, Alaric's Army would pour forth from the forest, and with the aid of the newly arrived General Anduin Praeton, pin Kel'thuzad against the distant mountains.

All was ready. All had been ready for quite a while now, at least in this camp. Miles away, the forces of General Praeton had trouble assembling, as their position was right on top of a steaming, stinking bog. But finally, the assault would begin.

As Alaric made his way past the ridged and ready lines of melee fighters, the ranks of mages, spell breakers, and paladins, he eventually made it to the edge of the dark and gloomy forest. Looking at his watch, he realized now that it was almost dawn: it was five in the morning, and he, along with much of the Army hadn't gotten a wink of sleep.

At the edge lay in wait four hundred ballistae, fifty fire-lit trebuchets, and thirty siege tanks, their shells already loaded and awaiting the order. On his order, the artillery barrage that would lead the way for the final attack would begin.

After all the second checks, and inspections, he was ready to give the order. Slowly, he walked out of the edge of the forest, a sudden clash of thunder signaling the beginning of a storm. He stared up at the sky, thought "What foul devilry is this Kel'thuzad? What storm are you summoning to wash us out of our hiding hole?"

Slowly, freezing water droplets began to splash down on his fair face. "Fine, let it be that in this storm your undoing shall occur" a blinding lightning flash exploded over the ridge of the mountains in the far off distance, the thunder clap following not far behind. Suddenly, a gust of wind picked up. The air temperature dropped, as the cold front passed over them and the forest.

Alaric stood, awaiting the lightning flashes to light up the battlefield. With each sudden flash, a vast barrier of moving blackness between him and Kel'thuzad was revealed. The sounds of the Undead were barely heard over the thunder. Alaric turned his back from the sight, looked towards the runners that had gathered behind him.

"First volley in one minute. After that, it is fire at will" and with that simple order, the runners dashed off, and the first sounds of the artillery appeared as their directors moved them out into the open.

The minute passed, each second adding a layer of anticipation and nervousness. With as sudden precision, and stunning power as the lightning and thunder all of the artillery pieces opened the barrage at the same time, and in that time, the sky filled with the light of their shot.

Dozens of streaks of light shot forth from the edge of the forest, the siege tanks unleashing their deadly barrages, the trebuchets and their fire shot unleashing hell upon the Scourge. In the middle of a great storm, the peak of battle was reached.

Across the dark battlefield, Alaric stared at a distant ridge, where also spouts of flame were blown from General Praeton's Army.

"It has begun…"Alaric uttered. As if heard by the Titans themselves, the long lines of infantry and cavalry began to emerge from the forest, at first at a steady walk, then, a raging charge. With each artillery blast or lightning flash, the light of each glinted off the armor of his men, creating a truly fearsome sight.

And so, the charge of nearly a hundred thousand men, dwarves, and elves thundered down the hill, and met weapon in weapon with their hated enemy.

……………………

The charge was a success. With such savagery coming in from not only the broad front that the Scourge had expected, but also to their entire west flank the sneaky forces of Anduin Praeton joined in the slaughter.

Much of the Scourge's surprised army had been decimated in that one fell swoop, as the shining knight's in armor cut down their necromancers, and jousted with the Death Knights that held control over them. The few overlords that survived in the outer area of the charge quickly retreated closer to Kel'thuzad's position near the back of the force abandoning their minions to the sabers and swords that flailed so much of their army apart. As the two hours of slaughter and butchery ended, the great storm that had engulfed the air dissipated rather quickly, leaving a smog filled air, yet a blurred moon, in the panorama that was the night sky.

The tables had turned in the battle, and now with the joint forces of Praeton and Alaric, the Scourge was trapped between the Alliance forces, and the gigantic mountains. But behind those mountains, a red sun slowly rose revealing the thousands upon thousands that had been slain that night.

Alaric moved up and down the line of elven swordsmen on his new steed as they formed ranks and prepared to charge the center of Kel'thuzad's new, and much smaller position. Once they broke though this last position here, the cavalry would charge at Kel'thuzad's position before any of his minions could be summoned to aid his escape. Alaric would spearhead the cavalry assault deep into the heart of the Undead army.

He had wanted to speak to Dethal before leaving, to tell him that he believed Quel'thalas would be in good hands if he did not make it back out of the compacted, yet still somewhat numerous Undead.

He did not find Dethal, and assumed that he was off somewhere else doing another task. He returned to his Guard, which would spearhead the tricky attack into the heart of Kel'thuzad's force.

As the sun rose, Alaric donned his High Elven Ranger-General armor, the thick yet light metal armor setting perfectly on his body. After returning to his guard, he received his helmet. It was an ancient relic. One from an old human Lord of Arathor, the ancient and first true human nation. Placing the heavy and cumbersome thing on his head proved to be something of trouble for him. After several minutes of tightening straps, untightening, refitting, and so forth, he finally readied himself.

Already up ahead the sounds of fighting could be heard. Just in front was a small hill that obscured the vision of the battle, so he and his men would have to just sit and wait until the runner appeared to report whether the hole had been created or not.

The minutes that passed seemed more like long hours. Breathing hard, he noticed that the cold that night had only intensified in the day, a strange phenomena. But he dismissed the sight of his nebulous breath from his mind, and instead focused on how well to wield his lance.

Eventually after the eternity of waiting, a runner appeared at the top of the hill, his silhouette the only visible thing in the rising sun. The runner shouted something out that he couldn't hear, but apparently it was the signal to go since the hundreds of horsemen in front of him began to slowly start a trot, and then burst into a full gallop.

With the armor of the horses and cavalrymen clanging, the war cries, and fluttering flags, Alaric barely heard the sounds of death in front. The horse carried him up the hill, and suddenly, the entire battle came into view. At the base of the mountains lay the dark carpet that he had seen two days before, though it was much smaller now than in the previous days. He noticed the hole in the Undead lines as they moved units from one place to another to help relieve the pressure in some areas to others. It was almost a clear line all the way to the base of the mountains, as if the Scourge had split its army almost in two.

The charge came suddenly and quick. In the front, cavalrymen trampled any opposition. For nearly a mile the horsemen charged, their horses not giving way. Countless more Undead were destroyed in that charge as Alaric's cavalry drilled itself deep into the heart of the Undead force.

The length that the cavalry had to charge to reach Kel'thuzad was nearly a mile and a half. In less than five minutes of the devastating charge, Alaric began to see more butchers, and Crypt Lords. Stronger units, surely Kel'thuzad's guards.

Now at the fore of the charge, he lifted one hand off the reins and pointed in one direction, a third of the cavalry men split off as part of the plan of distraction. Laying his hand back on the reins, he now lifted his left, and pointed the other direction, another third breaking off the charge and plowing down more Undead beasts.

"Now its just us, and Kel'thuzad" Alaric thought as he focused his mind back to the front of him.

"ONLY A BIT FURTHER!" a cavalryman screamed at him as he rode up next to him.

Not far off, perhaps a hundred meters Alaric spotted four Crypt Lords, two butchers, and a faint glimpse of a tall, bony, creature with glowing blue orbs where its eye sockets used to be. Under its purple, black, and gold robe, under the bony arm that held it, Alaric spied an old dusty book filled to the brim with pages, and it seemed to be chain locked in special magic chains.

"That is him! Kel'thuzad and the Book!" Alaric's mind exploded. With the sudden closeness of the Litch, his heart leapt and he pushed this horse harder than he had any other.

They were but fifty yards off! So close to acquiring the Book of Medivh!

He waved to his men, yelled out "Only a little bit further men! On to victory!" but suddenly, his cry of jubilance was cut short. The sound of amazingly deep and strange horns echoed over the battlefield, and all souls and Undead creatures turned to face the sound.

The sound echoed across the battlefield like an ill omen, like a virus. More horns erupted, as Alaric looked into the glare of the sun where the sound seemed to be emanating from. Upon a large mountain on the border of both army's easternmost flank, but a quarter kilometer from Alaric a lone figure defied the great rising ball that as the sun.

In the very heart of the sun, as his eyes focused, Alaric could make out a tall figure of muscular proportions. The creature raised its hands to the horn that hung around its neck, and blew on it once again. Crestfallen, Alaric recognized the sound; it was the Horn of Cenarius…

……………………..

He stared down at the titanic forces displayed below him. At this height, they looked as if toy figures, fighting each other in a glorious battle that would delight a child.

His eyes had long been blind, but the power of nature inclined him a sight that was far greater than any that he had ever reaped. He was Barak Demonlasher, Night Elf Inquisitor and Demon Hunter. He had arrived to seek revenge upon his enemy, Alaric'Quel who had so defiled all he had ever fought to protect, and his honor.

The Druids had given him this mission. To retrieve the Waters, and destroy those whom sought to take them, and any in their way. For months now they had wandered in this barbaric and desolate land, finally finding their quarry.

"I shall destroy you before you ever reap the potential powers of the Waters of _Nordrassil _fool!" he shouted out, knowing that the Alaric he was looking for would hear his cry.

Raising both hands, he laughed a terrible laugh, and once again blew the Horn of Cenarius. Behind, a great army of Night Elves, treants, chimeras, and huntresses mounted on their trusted companions the tigers, Druids of Talon and Claw, and many more had accompanied him on his mission. With this hands held up, he once again laughed, and finally released his arms, in a signal for his entire force to charge down the mountain pass, and destroy those that stood in his way.

The run down the mountain did not take long, and it felt great as he stretched his long legs and felt the wind snap at his hair. In the last meter before a group of human footmen, the only of their kind who stood their ground, he jumped five feet into the air, and landed behind them.

He let his sythes loose, and quickly stabbed those behind him without even looking, still facing the other direction. Glorious geysers of blood erupted from their bodies. Smiling, he turned to face the now frightened regiment of footmen, and began to systematically kill each and all one hundred of them before his force ever reached the base of the mountains.

………………….

Chaos. Panic. Route. All of the above had stricken the Army of the Durnhold and Anduin Praeton's grand 3rd Army of the Alliance.

As soon as Alaric heard that Horn, he knew that the battle was over, and inevitably a loss. There were rumors of a Night Elf expedition on Lordaeron's shores before, but he and the others had paid no heed. When finally looked back over to where Kel'thuzad was standing moments before, he saw an empty Circle of Power; Kel'thuzad had teleported himself to safety. The slippery eel had escaped again.

But finding Kel'thuzad was not of top concern now. Saving the Army was. And so in the panic, the necromancers, and other higher ups in the Scourge's army had left many of their minions to their own lusts, and so Alaric made an easy escape back to the retreating remnants of his own Army.

Returning, he found that Dethal, Arrius, Eolas, and Bludaxe had finally stopped the retreat and forced their men back into line; nearly four miles from their previous command post.

As depressing as the turn of events was, Alaric refused to give in to self destructive thoughts. As soon as he entered the tent, the surviving commanders were about him. For over five minutes they argued and debated as the battle raged ever closer, since their men were being pushed back and forced to retreat nearly every time they created a new front.

Very suddenly, Anduin Praeton, thought already dead in the amazingly surprising flanking Night Elf charge, barged through the tent flaps.

"Leave this place! The knights I assigned to go around the mountain range to prevent Kel'thuzad from escaping have sighted him and the remnants of his army. They are headed on the direction I have written here on this map" Anduin tossed a roll of parchment on the tabletop.

"I will stay behind with my Army and hold these Night Elves off as long as possible. Pursue Kel'thuzad, and may you redeem us all!" Praeton yelled out, face now red.

Alaric only nodded, for it was the only good option they had. Minutes later, the Army of the Durnhold began to disengage leaving Anduin Praeton's greatly outnumbered forces to hold the vicious attacks of the Night Elves at bay. Alaric promised to return, and relieve Anduin, but the man only smiled and said that it was his duty to die here if necessary.

And so, the Army of the Durnhold was saved by the sacrifice of Anduin Praeton, if only for the time being. They quickly passed the mountain range, and finally arrived at safety when they were directly behind the most infuriating mountains. Only then did Alaric look at the parchment Anduin Praeton gave him: the path that Kel'thuzad and his remaining forces took, led straight into the heart of old Quel'thalas.

"It seems as though Quel'thalas shall be reborn through the very fires of war that consumed it in the first place" Alaric said thoughtfully, not enjoying the thought of his destroyed homeland.

And so, the now much reduced Army passed away from the Tirisfal Glades, the march taking nearly three weeks to complete. But eventually, they passed through the first of the _Quel'thallasen _Gates placed in outer Quel'thalas to safeguard against invaders. The Blood Elves were returning home…


	20. Chapter 18: Into the Realm Once Eternal

Chapter 18: Into the Realm Once Eternal

(In this chapter, Alaric and his Army trail Kel'thuzad through the dead lands that once made up Quel'thalas. This chapter is going to borrow heavily from out-of-game resources, and so may be hard to understand. I wrote up a small history of the Third War in Quel'thalas to alleviate some of the 'pain' of not understanding what is going on)

April 30th, near the Outer Quel'thalas Gate, continent of Lordaeron

_Of the Third War in Quel'thalas: What began with an unsuspecting Plague in the Northlands of Lordaeron, one of the few places untouched by the Wars of the recent decades, the situation quickly spiraled out of control. The elves of the High Elven Kingdom, Quel'thalas, watched carefully, eyeing the recent taint growing in Lordaeron. When their own Prince, Arthas Menethil, turned against them, the High Elves opened up their borders to the human refugees fleeing south and east._

_When it came that Uther the Lightbringer and his Paladins of the Order of the Silver Hand were destroyed, it became apparent that the Scourge, and its new agent, Arthas, had turned their eye upon Quel'thalas. _

_Before complete mobilization of armies could ever be completed, the Undead struck at the southern hamlets and villages. Such places were completely undefended, their inhabitants dying before they were even able to defend themselves._

_A little farther north however, scattered bands of resistance harried the Scourge's assault columns as they moved irrevocably through the dense Larlad'un forests. Finally, as the Scourge army, headed by the traitor Arthas, approached the Outer Elven Gate (a huge gate of sunstone and magically weaved metals. It is the only way through the Pass of Korkan, a small canyon that leads a straight road through the forests and to Silvermoon itself) the Ranger Armies of Quel'thalas were able to wage war, now fully mobilized. _

_Silvanas Windrunner, Ranger-General of the Elven forces, fought valiantly around the Outer Gate in a succession of battles. Many on both sides died, yet eventually though sheer numbers, the Undead forced the High Elven armies behind their own Gate, sealing the fate of outer Quel'thalas. The only other route besides the Gate were the bridges that crossed the Cronor River, which were destroyed by the retreating Elves, and so the path for the Undead was made clear._

_After finding the three hidden Sun Keys in and between the massive battles, the Undead were able to easily bypass the Gate, and marched into the Midlands of Quel'thalas._

_Once again, another magical Elven Gate stood in his way. Arthas, determined not to lose time, waged total war on the inhabitants of the Midlands. Towns were razed, the people slaughtered, all making sure that the Elves would never be able to draw bounty from this land again. Yet again the persistent Sylvanis stood in his way. For days huge battles raged across the Midlands, ravaging everything that got in the way of the fighting._

_Slowly but surely, Sylvanis was being pushed back, her Elven forces unable to keep at bay the ever increasing number of Undead. They finally found themselves retreating behind the last fortification before the capital; the Inner Elf Gate, which led to the major cities, harbors and ports, academies, and even the Sunwell._

_Brashly and foolishly, Arthas, at the head of the Scourge's army completely ignored the ailing remnetns of the Ranger Army, which were reforming at his flanks. He immediately constructed a siege against fair and beautiful Silvermoon herself, and prepared to reap his destiny._

_With an elven force of several thousand on his flank, and the entire defenses of Silvermoon at his fore, Arthas could never hope to successfully storm the fortress city _and _keep the possession under his control. In an amazing tactical maneuver, Arthas drove the mostly mindless masses of the Scourge in a pincer attack, and overwhelmed Sylvanas at the Battle of the Forest Dorm. _

_When Sylvanas' forces collapsed around her, Arthas himself rode deep into the elves' wavering lines, and struck down Sylvanas herself. With such a move, the rest of the army she once led was demoralized, and scattered. In a ghastly gesture of his corrupt, rotten soul, impurity, and no sense of honor, he raised Sylvanas from the very position her lifeless body fell to. The Banshee Sylvanas now served the Litch King, and the Scourge in taking her home city of Silvermoon._

_The Battle of Silvermoon was bloody and in most cases fought in the streets, homes, and temples of the city. Many civilians perished while trying to either flee or take up arms to defend their homes. Little by little, room by room, road by road, the Scourge gained ground, until the finality of the battle came to the very steps of the Sunstrider Conclave building, and the Sunwell. In the end, many Sunstriders themselves took up arms against the insurgents, yet many more perished. Several of the younger Sunstriders such as Kael'thas, Alaric'Quel, and Eldin Sunstrider were able to escape. When it became clear that there was absolutely no way to win such a battle, or even hopes of holding back the invaders, all fled. In the haste of their retreat, a brave group of captains set fire to the city to prevent the dead from being able to rise, giving them the well deserved fate of a peaceful death._

_After Silvermoon had fallen, and burned, the elven organized resistance literally ceased to exist. From this moment on, those that had escaped vowed to avenge their fallen ancestors, families, and race. They became wary of the failing Alliance of Lordaeron, and many times acted without its authority. They soon renamed their entire race Blood Elves, in homage of their fallen people. Months after the destruction of Quel'thalas and the scattering of the High Bourne, a time known as the 'Rise of the Blood Elves' came into being. The Blood Elves continuously proved themselves to be strong and willing enough to make their own claims in the world. Soon, the greatest test for all elves would begin, and their homeland would be reclaimed, if only for a little while…_

A charred skull crunched under his thick, leather boot. The smell of the land was one of distant death, and rotting trees. The ground was a dark brown hue, mixed in with a black and infecting soil.

In front of him lay the Larlad'un Forest, a once tall and noble place of solace and meditation. Said to have been standing even when the world was born, the Larlad'un had always stood its place, as if guarding the entrance to the long peninsula north of it. There had once been thousands upon thousands of acres of never ending forest here. The first time these forests had encountered violence was in the great wars between the elves and trolls long ago. And then, thousands of years later the massive jugernaught known as the Orcish Horde had made its way up into these lands, and ravaged its way across the peninsula known as Quel'thalas. But they were defeated in time, and the forests healed.

The time again came that war visited the Larlad'un, yet this time it was to bring a lasting end to so old a forest. The infected blight that the Scourge brought with it destroyed so much of the wildlife here, leaving it a plagued land. Yet the elves, with all their magics and natural ability could heal such damage.

"And so we shall…" Alaric thought to himself surveying the place that once was his people's home.

Around him unorganized knots of men walked slowly, some stumbling in exhaustion. The men were tired, the weeks of hard forced marches finally overtaking the euphoria of the idea of grand re-conquest. Many of the soldiers had lost pieces of their armor, and had bloody bandages were wrapped around heads, arms, legs, and so forth.

Thanks to Duke Winfield's brigades, at least a few caravans filled with supplies were getting to the ever moving Army. The men had now become accustomed to shedding anything that they did not need in order to bear the weight of their knapsacks or backpacks that were now filled with supplies.

"Milord!" a voice called out.

Alaric turned to see the origin of the call. He turned to see a runner, carrying a large envelope sealed shut with red wax. On the wax was imprinted the royal seal of the Court of Stormwind.

The runner, panting, managed to heave himself a few more steps towards the Elf, and tiredly handed him the envelope. "Where has this come from?" Alaric inquired.

"King Varian Wrynn and the Alliance ministers milord!" the exhausted runner announced. Just then did Alaric notice that the runner was wearing ceremonial clothes, and had probably arrived by gryphon-back a few miles to the south where the main base camp was.

Alaric took the letter and quickly ripped the seal. Inside, the letter read;

_Stormwind, Azeroth_

_High Alliance Command_

_Addressed to: Lord Marshal Alaric Faltron'Quel, Commander of Alliance Armies in Greater Lordaeron._

_First Conduct - Status of the War; For months our forces had redoubled their offensive efforts and have met with the heavy resistance that the Scourge was expected to deliver. As of late April, the Undead resistance along the Arathi High Lands has broken, and our armies in that theater have been able to move forward to reinforce your current position. _

_Second Conduct – Plans for the continuation of the War; With fully a quarter of the Alliance's strength moving north to reinforce your position, it has been thought necessary to divide your command under different leaders to manage a greater scale of conflict. The opening of additional theaters will also place you in more direct control of your forces. You shall yourself be taking personal command of the Quel'thalas theater, in an attempt to retake the lands there._

_Third Conduct – A Final Blow; With a portion of the Northern coasts now cleared, a massive armada from the Kingdom of Kul'tiras is moving to your position and should reach the harbors of Old Silvermoon within the end of the new month. Once you unite your forces with those of the southern commanders who are on their way north, you're forces shall embark upon the Kul'tiras flotilla and land on the shores of Northrend in an effort to strike at the heart of the Scourge. Resistance heavier than any before witnessed by the Scourge before is expected, and you should prepare well and soon._

_April 27th, 1st Year, New Age_

Alaric crumpled the message up in his hand. The runner who had come so far so quickly looked appalled and offended as Alaric summoned a green flame that burnt the paper to a crisp. He waved the runner away, who slowly skulked down the dirt road towards some tents that had been hastily erected as a medical center.

"So, they expect that we are ready to take the fight to the heart of the Scourge eh? If that is their demand, than we shall be ready to end this war once and for all. All that is now required is the Book of Medivh. Something Kel'thuzad keeps very near and dear to…" he almost thought of the word 'himself', but quickly thought of the creature, and corrected with "itself." the thoughts raced through his head. Kel'thuzad and his Guard were but a few miles in front of them, racing to get to the gathering Eastern Plaugeland Scourge in ruins of Silvermoon.

"Captain!" he yelled out, motioning to a young Blood Elf warrior "Make sure all the regiments and brigades keep an orderly column moving, this place is a mess. And also, send a runner for Duke Winfield's forces to rejoin the main battle group. There may be Undead lurking on the forest edges, so be careful"

"Yes my liege" the young Blood Elf said, impressed enough with his task, and ran off.

"When we reach the ruins of Silvermoon, I shall place a vial of the Waters in the old fountain that used to be the Sunwell. From there, the healing of the land shall come, radiating slowly outwards to create a new Quel'thalas. One that will never again fall to the likes of such despicable enemies"

He had never seen these lands. Had thought them to be something more…even after their infecting, Havin Lightslayer believed that they would be special somehow, as if still infused with some kind of mysterious magic. But no, there was no such specialties in this damned place. It was the same thought the rest of the Scourge's great holdings in Lordaeron.

Though now, after great training in the arts of necromancy and darkness in Northrend, he had been returned here with a great number at his side to aid Kel'thuzad in the recent, unexpected, and extremely violent human incursion. He had learned of Alaric'Quel, the leader of the Alliance pigs, and studied his strategy and tactics.

"The fool has returned to his homeland, and seeks to reclaim what was once his. That will make him an even more dangerous foe as his Elf heritage will instinctively kick in, and make him fight harder for every inch of his homeland" Havin thought to himself. He remembered the stalwart Elven forces in the many battles of Larlad'un and Silvermoon.

Since his awakening on the in Hillsbrad, he had been trained in the ways of a Death Knight. He had already killed a Paladin, one that he had once called a fellow brother.

But now under orders from the Litch King himself he had traversed this cursed land once again to aid Kel'thuzad in this new war against the Alliance.

Out in the distance Havin spied Kel'thuzad on top of a large mound of dirt that used to be called a hill, under the red-orange mottled sky. The skeletal figurine that carried an impressive onyx and gold head piece, a dusty book chained to his side, and some loin cloth that freely blew in the polluted air.

Without ever looking at him, Kel'thuzad spoke "Have you come here with many? For you will need them. This Elf fights with vigor and aggressiveness not seen in many. It has not been since I believe Prince Arthas since I have seen such resistance and power over the elements" the voice of an old man, yet somehow rejuvenated with new energy, spoke.

Havin looked up to Kel'thuzad "I have come with what was able old Litch. The Alliance is putting up great fights on all the other fronts, and to the south of here, they have already broken though…though I'm sure you knew that" he said, trying to rub the former member of the Kirin Tor's face in the ground. He had always despised Litches, and had thought Death Knights capable of fully leading the Scourge into battle, as did all of his kin.

Kel'thuzad spoke nothing for a moment, a time of hesitation or planning for his next speech. "It was not my fault. From nowhere came a massive Night Elf force and nearly swiped both of the armies locked in combat away"

"How could an army of Night Elves and their pet slaves make it so far inland without you ever noticing? Has your power slipped Kel'thuzad?" Havin said, a cold ball of glee forming in his stomach. This was the most fun he had had since he killed Deneren the Judicator, his old Paladin master at the base of the Hillsbrad Foothills.

The Litch's 'eyes', actually two orbs of blue energy burst into deep royal blue flame at the insult. He had not been insulted since…since Arthas first joined the Scourge more than three years ago. Immediately he composed himself, and ordered the disobedient Death Knight away, to go form his Scourge with what little he had left.

Kel'thuzad looked over at the horizon, and though it was only midday, the Plaugelands skies were always polluted and cursed, adopting a green or the orange-red sky that this day held.

"Yes, come you fool. This time there will be no pretty Night Elves to save you. Let the race of the Elf finish where it began, because with your downfall the last remnants of your pitiful race will wither and die. Let us have one last battle"

May 2nd, Alliance 1st Army (Army of Durnhold) Central Command

"If we cut around the old ruins of Silvermoon, then we can effectively trap Kel'thuzad and whatever reinforcements he has. He will have his back to the sea and will be able to do nothing but try to force a breakout" Dethal said with zeal. He had always been a master tactician. But Alaric was not seeing the strategy as a good one.

"Yes, we can cut them off and force them to the beaches. But do you think they would ever allow such? I now hear that they have over thirty thousand in their number, though the reports are always less than true. If so, they will have more than us when we meet them in battle and adopting such a strategy will leave us completely indefensible on the flanks. What do you think of the plan Eolas?"

Eolas sat in his chair, mind elsewhere, staring off into the distance.

"Eolas!" Alaric said louder now.

Eolas shook himself awake, "Err, umm, yes. A good plan my liege" Eolas had been acting strangely now. Before Alaric had only worried about his friend's overconfidence and brashness, but now something inside Eolas was changed. Had it been continual war that had eventually snapped something in his mind? Alaric guessed he would never know.

Sighing, he turned back to the piece of parchment that his commanders were gathered around. Outside the miserable orange-red sky stretched on forever, and in the distant horizon the faint globe of yellow slowly sunk.

Tomorrow they would move for the finishing cut to finish of Kel'thuzad and take the Book of Medivh. Alaric knew that it was going to be another blood bath, but with the paths now to the south open, more men could come in as replacements for those lost in the string of battles that had ranged from Tarren Mill to the Undercity.

The only thing that worried Alaric greater than what lay before his army was that of the Night Elves. How in the Light's name did they end up here in Lordaeron! He knew of Night Elf expeditions and explorers, but nothing of this magnitude. The Alliance and the Night Elves had a frosty relationship, but never a violent one. And when Alaric had traversed Kalimdor, he clearly made it out that it was an independent Expedition, not backed in any way by the Alliance. Only by individuals who were willing.

So that was struck out. But he already knew the answer. They believed him a most dangerous factor that could repeat the history of the past; a High-borne with great power, delving into 'evil' magics, and then invading their territory, and stealing what little remainder of the Well of Eternity there was. The story greatly reminded him of the fabled War of the Ancients and Illidan's rise and fall. "They must want to kill me very much so…Seems I'm not to popular these days" he said to himself chuckling which drew some odd faces. He shook his head and they went back to arguing amongst themselves.

He shoved the thought of the Night Elves searching for him out of his mind and instead focused on the task at hand. Tomorrow was going to be a long, long, day.

May 3rd, Quel'thalas Inner Domain

They had made it to the inner portions of Quel'thalas without much trouble. They passed the old battlefields where many where slain, castles and forts that had remained untouched for thousands of years now fallen into disrepair and destruction, burned down villages and even larger cities.

But now finally the fight had begun. Alaric gazed upon the battlefield with his scope, trailing the tides of the fight. The great mass of black he easily identified as the Scourge and his men with their armor glinting off of the early morning sun.

A great dust cloud had obscured the battle, so that he had to leave his lookout peak on the cliffs of nearby mountains to a lower and less remote location. Along the battlefront was a large, open field, followed by the ruins of an abandoned town to the left.

It was almost time for the breakthrough. They would be trying the same strategy as in the 'Great Battle of Tirisfal' (as some were calling it already). Yet this would be a much harder battle to fight than that of the Tirisfal battles. This one was strung out over a huge area and there were many places where there was no fighting going on at all.

"We are going to push through in one of those gaps" Alaric reminded himself. They were going to push back the Scourge with a devastating magical blow from the Arch-Mage's magic and then exploit the stunned leadership of the Scourge by forcing Duke Winfield's forces through the gap in the battle.

Looking back over at the battle, Alaric could tell that it was not his men that were doing the pushing. They were slowly giving way all along the front, as the Scourge's great numbers continued to push forward.

They just kept coming. More and more; far more than Alaric had expected. Suddenly, the dust lifted and he could make out a distant silhouette of a man riding a all too bony horse. Green energy emanated from him as he rode along the lines of the Scourge that continued their wave attacks. Every so often he would release a foul magic, which would blow dozens of men back. And every so often he would raise his hands, and strange runes would form around the ground directly around him, and the recently fallen would arise to his cause.

"A damned Death Knight! We are going to have to finish this now!" Alaric yelled out to Dethal, who sat next to him with a full contingent of veteran cavalry that used to belong to Grand Marshal Garithos' home guard. They carried no sympathies for the Elven kind, and were just as racist as Garithos himself, yet unlike him they proved themselves worth their mettle. He let out a high whistle and his horse dashed forward followed by those of the 'Garithos Brigade'. They would have to finish this Death Knight off before anything could be accomplished.

Near Midday

It was a hard battle, Genn had thought to himself. But he was wrong. It wasn't hard. It was downright hellish. His men were fighting near an old barn at the edge of one of the battles. The fighting was spread out across many miles, and not all of the areas could be focused on, so instead of one grand battle like the one in the Tirisfal Glades, there was a string of smaller ones.

Once a man was in battle, he no longer feared, and was lead by instinct. But here, there was no telling where the enemy was next. All of a sudden they would pop out of a hole in the ground, or ambush them from behind tall rocks or buildings. Not being constantly in a fight put the fear of dying in the men, the fear that was not there during constant battle.

"Sir, I think I heard something in the barn" one of his men whispered out. And thanks to this mans 'great hearing' the men got riled up, and started murmuring amongst themselves.

"Everyone, quiet!" Genn said in a high pitched rasp. He motioned for first company with their thirty odd men to move in and check out the barn. The detachment slowly approached the barn, the men with their iron or wooden shields raised and swords at the ready. The air was tense, and thick with foreboding. As Genn quietly ordered the remaining men _around _the barn to pounce on anything that might be in it, those thirty or so silently entered. The barn floor, covered in old hay, creaked as the men entered. And suddenly, an object flew past one of the men in the lead who let out a scream of terror. Yet as the object slowly stopped swinging, the embarrassed man identified it as a skeleton with a noose around its neck.

Genn smiled as he saw the happenings. One of the men started to call out an 'all clear' when the ground began to rumble. So sharply and suddenly did such happen that those the advance company all were shaken to the ground. The roof of the barn exploded, sending men and wooden splinters flying everywhere.

An abomination jumped out of the cellar of the old barn, and began his insane swinging. More men were cleaved as the abomination swung its sickles and butcher knifes. Just then, Genn noticed that the entire ground under the barn had begun to crack and fall apart.

"Merciful gods" he whispered. Dozens upon dozens of ghouls and nerubians poured out of the holes and cracks in the ground. Almost immediately the men closest to the utter destruction were consumed in the raging storm of undead.

The company of men, or what was left of them, that were sent forward were screaming in pain and horror. Genn raised his shield as a large undead beast swung its scythe implanted arm at him. The scythe cut though the iron shield leaving a large claw-like maw in his shield.

Something hard hit him on the head, and he fell backwards, the world spinning. Looking at the sky, he saw that the sun hadn't even reached noon yet, and then blacked out.

Late Dusk

He couldn't tell how the battle was going. Every so often, they would charge forward to find that the Scourge had abandoned their position. And that was how the Alliance forces were advancing. In some places resistance was so heavy not a chicken could peck seeds on the ground because there were so many arrows, swords, and more flailing around, yet the next minute the Scourge would be gone.

Slowly they were pulling Kel'thuzad, or so he thought it was Kel'thuzad, was pulling his forces closer to a central location to provide even harder resistance. Duran Talonfist and his resistance warriors were assigned to this sector of battle; the very northern edge of the Larlad'un Forest.

Right now he and his men were sneaking through the remains of the old forest. He and those others that were Rangers in Quel'thalas' employment in its day remembered this forest well, for it was their training ground, and a pivotal place in the battle against the Orcs.

He and his men all carried bows, with a quiver full of freshly made arrows slung across their backs. Sneaking around in the forest had its advantages. His men were veterans of guerrilla fighting and had been given such an opportunity in this battle as to prove their worth and ability.

Their mission was to sneak behind the main battle and disrupt Kel'thuzad's control over the Scourge by destroying the ziggurats that gave the Litch a greater ability to control his minions. Along with them was a dwarven demolitions team. The ingenious dwarves and their invaluable gunpowder sciences had been put to use en masse during the many wars that had ravaged Lordaeron since the formation of the Alliance.

And so again they would prove themselves to be an invaluable asset to the Alliance. To the south, just outside of the forest was a large flatland of dirt. In the flatland a large pyramidal object raised out of the ground; something very unnatural.

Duran took a swig of refreshing spring water from his flask, and signaled for his men to quietly approach. The huge ziggeraut had a large crystal formation floating seemingly harmless above its peak. The energies of stolen souls echoed and rebounded within the crystal, giving the ziggeraut its power.

"Ay, there be ar' target. Now all ya' got ta' do is take out the undead lurkin' round i'" the dwarf captain spoke quietly, shuffling his compact frame towards Duran.

"Yes, my men can take care of this" he replied coolly.

He slowly rose, the dark figure and flowing robe outlined by the slivers of silver light of the rising moon through the deadened pine trees. His men aimed their bows, all three hundred of them and slowly traced the undead underlings that mindlessly patrolled the area around the ziggurat.

"Quel'lagaroth!" Duran called out, and all three hundred Rangers let loose their missiles. Immediately a score of the undead fell, iron tipped arrows protruding through heads and torsos.

It was time. He drew a small human dagger, scavenged from one of the abandoned Lordaeronian villages and rushed forward behind the great wave of his men. As he drew upon the edge of the forest, the few undead that had survived began their mindless whirlwind of killing.

He could hear the screams of his men as the ravenous zombies and ghouls ate into their armor and tore away their flesh as a tasty treat. He saw more than one banshee fly directly and ethereally into the armors of his men and take control of their bodies using their twisted magics.

He continued to run forward with a smaller number of his men, and noticed that the purple tinted crystal formation on top of the zig, as they called them for short, had begun to glow stronger. Now visible the visible spirits of the trapped souls began to circle around the zig, their spirit energies giving life to the zig.

Duran never had time to call out a warning. Almost immediately the charged spirit energies of the zig fired a blue bolt at the mass of his Rangers. A mighty sonic boom spread across the dirt field and not only popped Duran's ears, but thrust him to the ground. As he looked about, he saw the bleeding, maimed, and tangled corpses of the dwarven demolitions team.

"A million curses on that ziggurat" he screamed out. He ran up to the still steaming pile of flesh that was only seconds ago the dwarven demolitions team and was more than relieved to see that their equipment had not been badly damaged; in fact three of the five charges, each with enough power to destroy one of these confounded spirit stealers, had survived.

He pulled the heavy load around his back and ran towards the zig and jumped up the first few stairs until he had reached the mid structure. There, he placed the charges down, heaving and panting.

"Now what do I do with this confounded piece of machinery!" he said outloud, barely hearing his voice over the additional blasts of energy the zig was pumping out at his Rangers.

For half a minute he fumbled around with each of the charges until he was so enraged and frustrated that he nearly burnt one. But it was such a motion that he discovered that the long string had to be ignited as a timer for the charge to go off. He smiled, and quickly lit the other charges, and ran at his fullest speed down the zig.

He screamed over and over for his men to back away and get into the forest for cover. Running in the open like that somehow slowed time down for him. He looked back over his shoulder once to see that the zig had fully charged again, and was prepared to fire.

Swinging his head around, he made one last desperate lunge for the forest as the zig prepared to fire its shot. In that split second, the charges exploded, pulverizing the superstructure of the ziggurat, completely destroying any support for the crystal. As the structure collapsed, the spirit energies were released, and the volitale crystal fell on its own suspension building, finishing the blow.

The sheer force of the explosion threw Duran fifteen feet and slammed him against a tree. Slowly opening his eyes, he could see the embers of the explosion slowly fluttering back down to earth, and some of his men gather around him. They helped pull him up, which put him in great pain as he had broken a rib or two.

One made the comment of their job finished and now 'going back to camp', but Duran replied "Camp? That was one ziggurat! I believe we still have work at the front lines!"

Early Morning

The sun still hadn't risen, yet its great warmth had started to spread across the land. The clouds hung pink and red in the presence of the rising sun. The string of battles had shifted during the night, Kel'thuzad pulling his forces into a tighter defensive ring around the ruins of Old Silvermoon.

Alaric sifted through the wreckage of the battle that had ravaged this area not to long ago. The Death Knight he was hunting had craftily escaped his sudden attack. For all he knew the Death Knight was out there killing more of his men.

He looked over the dusty plains that used to be Quel'thalas, and thought of all those that had fallen on those plains in the Third War. They were close to the base camp of Sylvanis Windrunner that had so daringly staved off the Scourge long enough for at least half of the city to escape via the ports and harbors along the coast.

Ruined towers and stone keeps lay scattered about him, all that as left of the great High Keep of Thalas, which had stood for nearly nine thousand years; since the founding of Quel'thalas.

"The ghosts of this place shall be avenged soon" he whispered, the pain of loss cutting into him. "We have already come so far…we have taken flight to Kalimdor, fought the entirety of the Horde, traveled north and retrieved the Waters of Eternity from the resting place of the holy Well. From there they had returned here to Lordaeron and fought a great War, which had helped pull the Alliance even tighter nit and given it new life and vigor.

"Yes, it is out time to win. Vengence has come to us at last" With the death of Kel'thuzad, the War would be coming to a close soon. The rebirth of Quel'thalas could be allowed, and the final path to the Litch King and the damnable bastard Arthas pried open.

As he looked up from the small bits of rubble he sat on, a small contingent of footmen marched across the dusty field. In the distance lay the ruins of Silvermoon, and the final obstacle; the Scourge's forces.

Great casualties had been taken thought yesterday and the night and even though neither side called a victory, Alaric knew that they were decisive engagements seeing as how the Scourge had been forced to retreat further and further, Kel'thuzad seeing that he had been outwitted and outmaneuvered on a tactical scale.

"It will end today. Today we shall storm the ruins of Silvermoon, and take back what is ours by all rights of blood and heritage!" he thought, mind racing. It was time; the men were ready, the reserves being brought up to replace the shattered brigades of last night and yesterday.

There were going to be even heavier losses wiping the Scourge out of Silvermoon, but with many of the ziggurats destroyed thanks to the brave espionage crews that had destroyed them the previous night, not even a being as powerful as Kel'thuzad could coordinate them with the intensity of usual.

It took most of the morning to get the force into position, and in some places the ruins of the city had already been breached. Defeating small and scattered bands of wandering undead without control because of the destruction of the ziggurats was an easy and menial task. The fight here was going to be a lot like that at Tarren Mill, Hillsbrad, and the Capitol.

Alaric had donned the Blood Red plate and mail of a Blood Elf one last time, to blend in with fellows of his race and encourage them that he did not stand above them in any way. This was the last time though. Once Silvermoon was retaken and the magical land of Quel'thalas reborn as the grand ceremonial refilling of the Sunwell began, revenge for those who had died here would be quenched, and the Blood Elves would once again be the High Elves.

The first lines had arrayed themselves parrelel to the ruined walls of Silvermoon. Many spots in the wall were either torn down or burned out holes, and already the artillery had fired several rounds into the obviously weak spots crumbling what was left of the South Wall where the infantry was about to move into.

Within the leftovers of the streets and roads of the city, Alaric notices how packed they were with undead. It was going to be a hard fight.

He then turned his gaze back to the first columns of men, now deploying into their regiment lines, and then rushed in. He cheered them on as they ran headfirst into the ruins. Just behind the first wave a group of mounted mages rode up to the walls and unleashed a massive magical ice storm upon the undead.

Almost immediately huge gray clouds formed above as the mages sung their spells and ethereal runes and spirit circles appeared under their feet and above their heads. A loud clash of thunder and a brief flash of lighting and little snow flakes began to drop. The snow flakes grew into larger and larger pieces, eventually becoming roaring hail that soared out of the summoned clouds at incredible speeds doing as much damage as any bullet would do to a body.

When the footmen had entered the ruins, they stopped as punctually as Dalaran mages were made out to be, and pulled back, as a wave of undead rushed out to meet the footmen.

For the first time in three years, an official Army of the Alliance had stepped foot in the ruined city of Silvermoon…

The battle had raged for the better part of the day. Havin could not tell who was winning or who was losing. There was too much dust and smoke from the fires and battle to tell what was going on behind the lines. While the foolish Kel'thuzad seemed content at 'directing' the battle from within the Silvermoon Sanctum of Hierarchs, Havin had taken it upon himself to visit the front line.

As he swept down the weed infested cobblestone streets and back alleys, he spotted fighting happening in almost every corner. From the little crevices between buildings to the main streets the battle raged. From building to building and bridge to bridge the Scourge and Alliance fought utterly and ferociously.

He could feel through the telepathic link to his minions about where they were and where the most desperate battle was occurring. He dashed past broken lamp posts, the skeletal remains of Inns, smashed statues and public icons, and rounded tight corners until he reached the High Road, which was the main road leading to the heart of the city which was apparently the Alliance's main goal. Their 'contact' within the Alliance Army had told them that their leader, the aggressive Blood Elf named Alaric'Quel was waging an all-or-nothing battle to reach the remnants of the Sunwell.

Reaching such a place of negative magic could greatly turn the tide of the battle, or perhaps even enable him to destroy any undead within miles with a single blast of the fouled energies of the Sunwell.

Rushing up the road he was on, he could see his forces pushing and foraying into battle along the High Road. They were so thick in number that they literally had ceased to be movement ten or twenty yards behind the fighting. Whenever they were to move up, it was because their comrades at the front had been slaughtered.

Havin spotted a regiment of blue and silver clad Stormwind soldiers running up to the tangled mass of walking dead and try to pry a breakthrough, only to be massacred. The sight of those glorious geysers of blood made Havin smile. As the footmen began to panic and break, the cannibalistic ghouls overran them, and tore into their armor consuming their most delicious flesh. The screams of those men slowly being eaten alive only made Havin a happier Death Knight.

A large expanse, probably thirty yards wide separated the two forces, where dwarven snipers and human and elven archers fired their missiles which criss-crossed with that of the undead's. In those thirty yards, hundreds of bodies were covered the floor, piling on top of each other and making the road slick with blood.

A long wall of Alliance warriors stood strong at the end of the road, which the tall buildings from which the archers where dueling overshadowed. Havin, using his command of the undead created a path for himself, and slowly rode up to the front of the group of undead that stood silent and passive by his side.

He laughed his terrible laugh, and lay his sword parallel to the buildings, pointed straight at the Alliance figure on a horse in front of them, of course their Colonel or General or whoever was in control of this line.

At once the undead to his sides rushed at him, the man with terror burned in his eyes. Havin then cast his aura, which gave the undead around him a greater will to feed on the souls of the living, making them a stronger foe to resist. He then accompanied the long wining wave of undead through the streets.

He let forth a shrill cry, and let loose the dogs of war. He fired bolts of dark magic side to side, which instantly fried the hearts of the helpless humans who now stood divided at the cross roads.

The humans were now cut in half, their forces pushed back onto lesser roads. Whatever regiments were here, they were now badly chewed up, and probably never to be combat effective groups again.

A single mage stood amidst a sea of undead which tried to claw at him, yet were rebuffed by the blue aura that surrounded him.

"The Light shall punish you, dark fool!" the elder cried out directly to him as he spotted the Death Knight.

"Feel the wrath of the Litch King old man!" Havin yelled out in reply, and pulled his horse's stirrup which made its flaming hooves jump high into the air. Cast in mid air, Havin unleashed a torrent of dark spirit energy on the old mage. The dark purple magic weaved its way through the air like a serpent, finding its target, and striking.

The mages shield held, but barely. The mage gave up step by step as the dark energy continued its lightening strikes. Eventually, the man collapsed to his feet, unable to resist any longer, yet somehow he still kept the shield around him.

Havin's teeth bared at that moment. The old man was frail, and could not stand up to another assault of his amazing magic. The old man looked up, locked onto Havin's eyes, and understood that his end had come. Havin told his minions to withdraw, and chase the remnants of whatever human opposition there was left on the High Road.

He then pushed his steed forward and at a full gallop, crushed any of his minions before him. He leveled his sword, prepared to throw it like a javelin, and almost stopped when he saw the man's surprising smile. The smile etched on his face for eternity though, as Havin released the sword which zoomed past his now white hair, and impaled the old man's shield, striking him down once and for all.

The Death Knight rode up slowly to the old mages dead body. What had he to smile about? Finally going to see the Light? Havin laughed at that, but was stopped short as he felt a hard punch on his chest. Slowly, he looked down to see a rune blade steaming with energy protruding through his chest plate which bore a single skull.

Havin, now with his last breath looked to behind him where he saw a single chestnut brown horse with a single rider upon it. With his vision blurring, Havin struggled to see who it was. The rider approached, firmly set his hand on the hilt of his supposed sword which was lodged in the back of Havin.

As blood started to spill out of his mouth, Havin realized that the figure behind him was a Blood Elf. "So…you…are the one that leads them" he said slowly, head over his shoulder.

The Elf snorted in disgust, pulled the sword around, and thrust it out, which caused Havin to buckle once again. The mage had smiled for what reason? The answer was apparent to Havin Lightslayer at that moment. He had bought this Elf enough time to sneak his forces around him, and cut off the head of the Scourge for nearly this half of the city. With no ziggurats around, and Kel'thuzad busy with the rest of his Scourge, his undead minions would turn on each other.

Havin looked down at the floor, and realized he had failed the Litch King, who would probably never let him live after such a failure anyway. Slowly, he turned around one more time to face the Blood Elf that was standing right behind him with the bloodied sword, and spat at his face.

The Blood Elf, face now obscured in a blurry cloud once again thrust his sword into Havin, this time at his heart. It was the end now. Blackness began to descend upon Havin Lightslayer, who slumped in his saddle, and fell of the floor, the sounds of his armor and the sword still impaled into his heart clattering loudly. He tiredly looked up to see the face of the Blood Elf, clear now. How he hated that face! The darkness would consume this monster before he ever achieved his goal.

"Damn you!" he said, the words barely forming. The Elf's face now twisted into a smile, as it once again pulled its bloodied sword from Havin's shattered frame. The darkness descended upon Havin, once holy Paladin, now a destroyed tool of the Litch King.

Alaric stood over the body of the Death Knight who had so eluded him for this long. Without their control, the undead within at least this half of the ruins would turn on each other.

It was time to make his way to the Sanctum of Hierarchs where the last obstacle lay; Kel'thuzad. His men were still fighting hard in the city, many of them dying in the climactic struggle.

Yet the High Road Alaric had once known so well was cleared, only the bodies of the dead blocking the way. He, Dethal, and several Priests of the Brotherhood that trailed behind him slowly trotted up the streets where runners would constantly run up to him and warn of great dangers lurking behind every corner. More runners ran up to him and Dethal, telling of great battles happening around the city still, even in this part that he thought by now would be a mop up operation.

Still though, he had several regiments lock High Road off from the other roads which made it more or less safe to traverse. As they continued forward, the sky had begun to turn black with clouds, and it began to let loose a torrential freezing rain.

"Again with this spell Litch?" he asked thin air. Of course, nothing answered him.

He and the Blood Elf's, the leaders of the remaining Elven kind continued up the High Road, and slowly the fog that had descended upon the area could no longer hide the massive Sanctum of Hierarchs.

The Sanctum was once home to the Sunstrider Dynasty, where all the matters of the Kingdom were put to rest and solved. The great structure loomed before them as they approached ever closer. Its once gleaming stone walls were now covered in ash and grime, and the proud towers that had once escorted the building in the four cardinal directions lay in ruins beside her.

Alaric sighed as he saw how much damage the once grand building had taken, and where such an evil had now taken up residence.

Soon, Kel'thuzad would fall, and the final moments of the subjugation of Quel'thalas would end.

The group, in silent reverence to those that had fallen in these halls, rode on, through the Great Gates of the Sanctum, and entered the buildings massive halls. Here, they dismounted, and continued on foot. The ceiling here rose for many dozens of feet, and the floor, though stained with blood, still reflected their images.

The halls were completely without the undead beasts that they could here scurrying about outside. Their footsteps though were the only noises that reverberated from inside the halls.

Finally, after a long walk from the main halls and an even longer trek up the winding stairs of the Center Tower, they came upon a final chamber where the King would sometimes use to look over the city. This tower rose above all others in the city, a great shining spire that was the ultimate epitaph of Elven engineering and architecture.

The long staircase continued for what seemed like an eternity above and below them, Alaric not being able to see the top or bottom at one point.

Upon reaching the top, Alaric could sense the darkness that lingered in the final chamber. "The evil we seek to cleanse is within that chamber" Tanin Firestar, the leader of the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics spoke solemnly.

"Let us finish this infestation once and for all my brothers!" Alaric said in a low tone, and together Alaric, Tanin, and Dethal watched reverently by four other Clerics pushed back the massive doors. The room was revealed, a floor strew with books and tomes thousands of years old, a single skylight which light was allowed through that reflected off a spirit circle encrusted with pure gold runes in the marble floor.

And on the entrance to the balcony a dark figure stood, watching over the city in the exact spot where the Kings of the High Elves had for millennia.

Kel'thuzad's dark purple-black robes swayed slightly in the wind, and the jewel and rune encrusted mantle upon his head stood straight up, far out-sizing Kel'thuzad's true stature.

The Litch was dressed in a robe appropriate for a King; obviously a ceremonial gown. On the balcony that surrounded the central tower was the entire overview of the city. The great walls that once stood proud and defiant were smashed and torn down. The city was enveloped in a great cloud of smoke from all the burning fires and dust from the movement of thousands within its once bustling streets.

"I knew you would come" an eerie voice said, perhaps one of an old man filled with raging emotions, the tone echoing through the small chamber. "Just as have all the other enemies of this undead Scourge. We have fought before, I believe Alaric'Quel. And also on the same side during the Orcish invasion. Hmm, we have more history than I first believed. But now that I remember such things, I know your weaknesses, and can read your mind like a book now" Kel'thuzad said, deep in thought.

Alaric's upper lip turned in disgust, seeing as how this thing was once human. "Long have I hunted you Litch Kel'thuzad. Your reign is now over, and your master's shall soon be as well"

The Litch turned around slowly, the robe flowing. "No, Elf. I do not believe that. And I do believe that your great power has been so wasted on futile efforts such as this one. If only you had joined the Scourge as I had, you could enjoy the paradise of an eternal life free of disease, pain, and worry"

Alaric visibly scanned Kel'thuzad up and down. "I don't see a paradise standing in front of me Litch. I see an abomination of life, something that should have died long ago" he replied, tone icily cold.

"Yes, I thought as much. Disappointing really. I could have used one like you, especially to replace that damned caste of Death Knights like my little pet Havin Lightslayer whom you so graciously killed for me. He irked me so"

"You sicken me" Alaric said in an unflattered tone "I will do what I must" he then slowly pulled his rune blade from its sheath, and turned it to Kel'thuzad, laying a foot from the Litch's bony chest.

Kel'thuzad laughed, and in a manner faster than Alaric thought possible threw his hand up, and let loose a mighty wave of invisible energy which knocked Alaric to the ground. The five Cleric's, including Tanin Firestar were smashed into the walls, giving them deep cracks and dents. The five were either dead or unconscious Alaric noticed as he slowly drew his pained body back up.

To his side Dethal as well rose up, and pulled out his sword. "You fool! You are nothing to me! NOTHING!" Kel'thuzad screamed out and shot a blast of forked lightning at Dethal. The lightning nearly killed Dethal, badly searing the flesh on his chest. He then collapsed as well.

"Damn, he is powerful" Alaric thought to himself "Defeating some of the most powerful spell casters in the Alliance in a mere two blows"

The orbs of light that were Kel'thuzad's eyes flared with anger and frustration at these peons being so weak. It was now Kel'thuzad, the Litch King's greatest agent, against Alaric'Quel, leader of the Blood Elves and forces of the Alliance.

Again drawing his sword against Kel'thuzad's chest, he and the Litch slowly began to circle around the round room, eyes locked in a contest of wits.

Before they circled around the room completely, Alaric pushed all his energy into a quick thrust at the Litch's chest plate which Kel'thuzad easily sidestepped and countered with a quick blast of icy energy from his hand. The blast nearly topped Alaric over, and pushed him out onto the balcony.

Kel'thuzad slowly floated towards Alaric, who was trying to get up again. Overcoming such bolts of energy slowly drained his own. "See the power you have denied yourself! See the glory of the Scourge that you have tried to defile!" Kel'thuzad exclaimed.

Alaric stood, almost doubled over though, panting as he slowly rose. Yet the Litch gave him no rest. Again and again he shot the blasts into Alaric, slowly eating away at his armor, and eventually exposing his mailed chest. Each bolt pushed Alaric back another step, further and further onto the balcony which rose hundreds of feet from the nearest floor which was the roof of the Sanctum far below.

The painful attacks continued until Alaric was barely standing, right against the stone railings and gargoyles that overlooked the city. A small chuckle Kel'thuzad let out, and one more blast flung Alaric out of the tower, pushing him through the stone railing which broke at the pressure of his weight and that of the attack's.

Locked in a freefall, Alaric tumbled head over toe over and over. The wind screeched past him as he fell many stories down parallel to the tower. The world around him was a blur as he fell at such great speed. The pieces of the railing that he had been pushed through also fell with him,

"I will not perish!" he cried out with all his strength, and thrust his sword out to his side with his right hand, which caught the stone bricks of the tower. Holding onto the sword and going at such a speed caused a lance of pain to emanate all over his body. He could feel the muscle and tendons on his arm physically tear from the stress and pressure.

For another three stories he continued to fall, yet slowing now with the rune blade deeply locked into the side of the tower. Pieces of debris flew past him as the sword cut away at more of the brick lining of the tower.

But the blue tiled roof of the Sanctum was still approaching far to fast! Thinking quickly, Alaric, with his free left hand summoned elemental wind from below. The great gust going only Light knew how fast quickly slowed Alaric's descend, and flung him up, almost tearing his iron grip from the sword.

He had closed his eyes in pure fear when he had summoned the wind, not sure if it would help at all. Slowly, noticing his decent had finally stopped, he looked down. Just five feet below him was the roof of the Sanctum.

Suddenly, his right arm completely recoiled, and let go of the sword, the arm unable to contain any more stress. As he fell to the tiled roof, he looked up at the raining sky in disbelief. He then looked over to the long tear in the tower that his sword had done, and began to chuckle slowly. The small chuckle turned into a full blown laugh, and soon his body was racked with a madman's hysterical laughter.

He soon stopped the laughing though, as he noticed the terrible pain in his arm and shoulder starting to infect the rest of his body. He had just escaped death by not even a hair.

He did not feel he could stand, felt as if every bone in his body was gone. Unable to get back up, he did not notice the skeletal figure approaching him. Kel'thuzad, being a mystical creature, had teleported himself to the roof of the Sanctum to examine the Blood Elf's body. And yet somehow he had LIVED!

"How in the name of Darkness did he live!" Kel'thuzad's mental speech exploded.

"Patience Litch. The Elf is shattered now, and is like a cripple awaiting death from a executioner" another voice echoed. The vast voice of the Litch King resonated through his cranium, and he understood what such a message meant.

Slowly, Kel'thuzad's skeletal figure floated over to the writhing Elf whom eyed him as he closed within five feet. "It is time for me to finish you Alaric'Quel. Let me tell you how satisfying it is for me to kill you. You are like a final figurine in a collection, for it was your father I killed, whom so tried to defend the statue of Dath'Remar. I then killed the rest of your family with my bare hands, and let me tell you, it was the most enjoyable thing to see their life's squirming in my hand. Now, I shall finish the destruction of your family with your death…" Kel'thuzad said, Alaric listening with an increasing fury.

Alaric let loose a great roar of anger, the feeling in his body returning. He lunged up, and with his left hand punched deep into the Litch's armor, cutting a deep swath through the breast plate and breaking into its rib cage.

"You filthy animal!" Alaric cried out in blind rage as he twisted his hand and pulled it out of the most surprised Litch's chest. He then grabbed Kel'thuzad by the spine, and threw him against the side of the tower base from which Alaric had just fallen.

As the Litch struggled to get back up, Alaric, with his good hand, pulled the rune blade from the tower wall, and swung it at the Litch's body. Again and again he cut through the armor like a knife in butter, pieces of the decrepit creature's bone flying away.

The Litch, now fully ready unleashed a frost nova, a blast of ice elemental energy which in turn threw Alaric against the tower wall, which was now savaged by the fight. Back and forth the two fought, Alaric's blade seemingly doing little damage, yet the fury in his heart only grew.

Eventually, with his back against the wall, Alaric's blade was shot out of his hand by a blast of ice, which froze it to the wall. Kel'thuzad, seemingly victorious now, approached the cornered Alaric.

"An animal fights more ferociously when it is cornered Litch!" Alaric said quickly, again surprising Kel'thuzad. The ball of ice that had stuck his hand to the tower base quickly melted as an elemental energy of fire was summoned by Alaric.

He quickly moved his hand to face Kel'thuzad, who also fired a blast of ice energy to counter the attack. With fire against ice, the two were now locked in a duel; their mana, energy, and wills now pitted against each other in a final climactic battle, the last push with the thunder and lightning of the Scourge's summoned storm surrounding them.

"BEGONE WITH YOU FOUL LITCH!" Alaric bellowed out, and started to step forward. Against the physical might of his opponent, Kel'thuzad could do little, and as Alaric began to step forward, the Litch could no longer hold its own. His continuous blast of energy ceased, as did Alaric's who ran forward, and grabbed his skull.

"May the Light have mercy on you" he whispered out, as he held the skull in his hand, and crushed it in one final rush of energy.

As the skull was crushed and the bits of yellow bone thrown splintered across the roof, the Litch's bones began to glow a pale blue. Slowly, his very foundations and spirit were erased as his link to the Litch King was severed. A huge blast of energy erupted from the remnants of Kel'thuzad which threw Alaric against the wall of the tower once more.

The shockwave passed over the city, and stole the life force of all those undead under Kel'thuzad's command. The massive gale force winds of the shockwave also threw those who stood erect down onto the ground.

Slowly, the blue energy cascade subsided, and Alaric, slumped against the tower wall looked up into the sky which was now filled with small blue dots of energy from the death throes of Kel'thuzad.

The clouds above the tower had begun to break, and a single ray of light shone down on the tower. Silvermoon had been retaken.

(Author's Note: Whew! Long chapter! Sorry it took me so, so, so, long to write this one guys. I have now finished school up, and have almost all day to write, joy. So the last batch of chapters will start to come up fast. Yes, it has been a long journey, and the road of WOTR is now coming to a close. There are only a few more final chapters until the climactic and ending that is of biblical proportions. I hope you guys all enjoyed this chapter, and please do review seeing as how the story will be ending soon. I believe that the chapters with the exception of the next one will be getting continuously longer, and hope to have you all along on the exciting ending of this great journey!)

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	21. Chapter 19: The Betrayer Within

Chapter 19: The Betrayer Within

Stormwind Keep, Kingdom of Stormwind, May 11th

The time had come. The forces of the Grand Alliance had pushed back the undead at the Arathi Highlands, securing safety for the last bastions of might in Stromgarde, or at least for the time being.

He had just signed another permit for the regional lords to recruit more footmen for the war effort, their last reserves sent to the northern battlefields a month ago. The Kul-Tiras Navy had carefully made its way around the west of Lordaeron, encountering not one, but two major undead armadas.

Such armadas were created from salvaged, stolen, or abandoned ships filled with undead minions and controlled by mostly the malicious Death Knights that the Litch King employed. "They used to be our knights…our paladins…" Varian Wrynn silently reminded himself. Such were the pains of war.

So many paladins and knights in shining armor that had ridden forth without the bidding of the Stormwind military had been so utterly transformed by the Litch King's magics. And the number in Lordaeron, especially the northern and more populated territories had such been true. But now it was time.

The last courier that had made it from gryphon back, his own Appolinax, a gift from the Dwarves of Aerie Peak, had brought back news of crushing victories in Quel'thalas. Through torrents of blood the Alliance forces spearheaded by the steadfast Stromgardians and valiant Stormwinders had retaken nearly the entire lost peninsula.

Varian looked to the top of the throne room, the gigantic stone chamber whose walls were draped in the blue and gold cloth tapestry. Within the blue linen was embedded the golden lion crest, the symbol of Stormwind. And next to that symbol was that of the Alliance, the distinctive L with three daggers piercing it.

Varian knew that his 'Second' Alliance was just a way to hold back the seemingly inevitable. Using persuasive powers he had convinced Stromgarde and Gilneas to sign the articles. He was pulling together a loose coalition to fight against the even glacier-like advance of the undead Scourge.

The Second Alliance was just infact the first one revitalized and with a stronger executive power, which allowed for an easier commanding of the war issues. No doubt Thoras Trollbane and Genn Greymane would try and take control of that executive power, yet for the time being they had to sit fuming under the control of the 'damnable' Stormwinders which was the only human kingdom left literally untouched by the Third War.

Stormwind and Khaz Modan, meaning King Wyrnn and King Bronzebeard were now the true upholders of the responsibility that came with upholding the leadership of the Alliance. Without them, it would crumble and there would be little to stop the Horde and Scourge.

Yet for all the fighting in the north, there was war upon his land as well. While the Third War raged across Lordaeron, the combined powers of the renegade Blackrock and Dragonmaw Orc clans resurfaced, and laid siege to his eastern realm, mainly around Lakeshire. In the south at Duskwood, a dark curse came down upon the land, and mad undead beasts began to roam the forests, and to the south west the usually rich and prosperous fields of Westfall and Moonbrook had fallen into a fallow depression, and were overrun by gnolls and other beasts.

With Stormwind already in heavy debt to the northern kingdoms since they had sapped the treasuries of many Alliance nations in their rebuilding, not much could be done, even to send help to Lordaeron in its time of need.

"May our action now help those who gave us harbor in our darkest hours" Varian thought, thinking of his own service as a Knight in the Second War. He had ridden forth in the King Llane's name and service, fighting in engagements ranging from the Battle of Moonbrook in the First War to the last battles around Blackrock Spire in the employment of the Order of the Horse, which later became the Order of the Silver Hand; the Paladins of Lordaeron.

Now that Stromgarde's fate was secure for the moment and the Scourge was temporarily thrown off balance it was time to strike a blow from which the Litch King could never regain from; a land invasion of Northrend, deep into the heart of the undead Scourge.

"We shall cut out the heart of the beast" he whispered under his breath, staring past the grand walls of the Keep.

Seventy thousand was the number. A massive force; the approximate size of the 1st Army when they had departed on their journey to reclaim the northlands; a mission which had only been partly successful, with Kel'thuzad thought dead and Quel'thalas retaken - yet not the old Capitol. The 1st Army had been restocked, yet another force was on its way to meet them.

During the only the peak of the Second War had such armies like these been seen, usually those of the Orcs earlier on, before Gul'dan's betrayal; an act of treachery that had saved the Alliance.

Supplies and troops were being moved through the Arathi Highlands with the stunning efficiency of Thoras Trollbane and the Tandred Proudmoore, King and Admiral of Kul-Tiras' and her Navy, not to mention the ever cooperative Dwarves and their amazing Deeprun Tram invention.

Columns, regiments, and brigades were being scraped up from everywhere they could be found; though the few Blood Elves that did not follow the Lord General 'Quel were seemingly uncooperative and insisted on fighting still, or returning _a'la _mecca to Silvermoon. The wizards of the Argent Dawn, a former wizard's guild of the Kirin Tor, had also pledged their support in the invasion. The 3rd Alliance Army, led by General Marcus, had been recalled from the battles around Dalaran had already been picked up by the Kul-Tiras armada.

Four Kul-Tiras fleets, all fused into a singe mighty armada, and nearly all of the merchant Kingdom's sea power, had been put to sea, and were if going according to plan, should be near the Quel'thalas salient. Soon, those seventy thousand would depart for Northrend, and would be the first Alliance army to set foot on the frozen continent since before Arthas' utter betrayal and corruption. No, nothing could stop destiny now; it was all going according to the plan laid out by him, the Lord General, and the other leaders of the Alliance.

"My liege! My king!" a voice cried out. Varian turned to see Bishop Benedicus, second in the Church only to the sickly Bolon Faol, who would most likely die soon, running up to the Throne room via the long corridor that led up to it. As he swept past, the guards turned their heads in wonder at the golden and silver robed figure.

"Benedicus? What is the meaning of this?" Varian let out.

"News from the front milord. Bad news" the Bishop said, eyes turning towards the floor.

Ruins of Tharenwind Harbor, Quel'thalas, May 20th

The Book of Medivh had been captured. In the end, they had won. Quel'thalas had been retaken, if only for the moment along with half of eastern Lordaeron where more troops were pushing up from the Arathi Highlands and Southshore.

Still through, the only breakthrough other than his had been General Praeton's, and he had been assumed dead after the quick contact with the huge Night Elf force that had suddenly flanked the 1st Alliance and the Scourge.

Now, this was the time for all the fruition of his plans. He had traveled half the breadth of Kalimdor, crisscrossed Lordaeron and Quel'thalas. They had fought Night Elves, undead, creeps and critters, even the humans, elves, and dwarves of Theramore. For all this they gained this exact moment.

Soon it would be over…soon…

With the Book of Medivh to act as his siphoning and focus and source of control he and the other Clerics would direct the power of the Waters to tear the very fabric of reality around the Icecrown Glacier to pieces, throwing the Litch King into the Twisting Nether to be tormented by the demons there for all eternity.

And if this plan, which he had not shared with the rest of Alliance High Command did not work, they would embark on this fools mission into Northrend and he would destroy the Litch King with his own hands.

As for now, the limited powers of himself and the Brotherhood could not control such immense energy at so far a distance. The job would have to be done on the shores of Northrend. And so the 1st Army once again moved, this time west towards the ruins of Tharenwind Harbor.

Here the Kul-Tiras and Stormwind Navies had come together and prepared to carry the Army across the Northern Seas. To the south, the Scourge had regrouped and was sallying forth from the ruins of Stratholme under the command of an array of litches and death knights.

Their numbers were great, bolstered from the dead fallen on the battlefields to the south. In the south the war had turned against them. All the gains made by the assumed dead Lord General Praeton had been lost, and a meager Alliance force was now trapped around Dalaran. Gilneas had lost nearly all of its standing army in Silverpine Forest (as it had only sent the one into battle) and had retreated back to their Greymane Wall, and in the far eastern theater the Alliance had lost control of Tarren Mill to the Forsaken, another arm of the undead, who were mysteriously pouring forth from the ruins of Lordaeron.

If something was to be done, it would have to be done soon. The supply line to Stromgarde had been almost completely cut off by the advancing dead ranks from Andorhal.

As a result of having to protect the southern borders of Quel'thalas, Alaric had been forced to sacrifice most of the Brotherhood and a quarter of his troops to hold the Scourge in place while the Navy arrived.

Once Alaric had returned, he also expected the support of a great deal of the High Elves living in the human lands, yet had met with little help from them at all. He and his Blood Elves, and the men of the 1st Alliance Army with whatever support the old Varian Wrynn could send would have to suffice for now.

The invasion of Northrend would be bloody, and Alaric doubted that he and his already battered army could withstand another prolonged assault campaign. Especially with that maddened Night Elf still on their tail. Last he had been heard of was two weeks ago just before the battle for Silvermoon. He and his massive force were wandering around the old fired out skeletons of villages somewhere in the Eastern Plaugelands.

He turned to see Dethal riding on his war mount towards him. He was quickly trailed by the Duke of Goldshire, Tal Winfield. During the campaign the two had become steadfast friends, sticking by each others sides even during combat unless duty pulled them some other place.

"Lord Alaric, the first battalions have boarded, with the rest well underway. Equipment has ample space as well, so it looks like we can be bringing along our siege tanks and catapults" Dethal spoke out as he neared.

"Good…any news on reinforcements?" Alaric said, riding over a tall ridge to see the army and navy coming together, his mount neighing, clearly annoyed at the lack of even paltry grass to eat.

"Yes sir, King Wrynn sends his compliments and his own Lord General Jonathan Marcus along with the 3rd Army recalled from the Redridge Mountains where they have been fighting orcs from Blackrock Spire-" although, Dethal never finished.

In the distance a great wall of smoke rose from the direction of a group of tents under the banner of the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics.

"By the decree of Lord High General 'Quel, this portion of the camp is closed to all but the those who carry the badge of the Brotherhood!" Genn bellowed out.

The dark robed figures continued to move towards him and his pitifully sized regiment.

"I say, in the name of the King's Will, halt!" he again yelled out to the advancing column of black clad figures.

Genn threw his hand out in the air in a gesture to stop, but the tall silhouettes did not again heed his call.

"You are under arrest" he then said, now in a more firm and angry tone. He quickly gathered his men from their resting positions and told them to restrain the sudden intrusion.

He and his regiment had been acting rear and guard duty ever since the end of the fighting near the Lar'ladun Forest. He himself had nearly died in that action, his skull fractured by a piece of shrapnel from a meat wagon that was filled with the sharp metallic remains of men's armor. After the battle, he had immediately been healed by a priest, of whom he never had the time to thank.

As he stepped closer to the lead figure, he felt a strange aura around them…something very dark. One of his men suddenly seized the hands of the leading stranger, to his own regret.

The outside of the gauntlets of the stranger turned to molten lava and badly burned the footman's hands. Screaming, the footman did not notice as the dark clad stranger pointed a finger at him, with a small zap of energy that immediately melted off the skin of the hapless footman. With the footman's entrails and remains pouring out of his armor, Genn nearly vomited in disgust. He was not alone as he heard several behind him gag.

Genn backed away, and carefully drew his sword pointed straight to the leading stranger, who never took his eyes off the dirt path.

"You are to halt NOW!" Genn screamed out, fearing to get too close to the dark robed men.

A sudden blast of wind blew him back, knocking him into his own men. The lead figure's head turned in his direction. Genn, in absolute horror, saw an extremely familiar face. "None but the Litch King command me". The thing's eyes washed over with a glowing red, that almost immediately subsided. And with that said statement, he let loose a pillar of flame on the tents behind him.

The familiar cast a spell of numbness upon Genn and his regiment. Unable to move or speak, nothing could be done to warn the others.

Alaric looked on in horror as the Brotherhood's portion of the camp burned in flame. There was where the Waters of Eternity were being stored! He rushed his steed over the grassless, dead ground towards them. The Brotherhood's portion of the camp had been separated from the rest of the Army for security reasons, so it was just a straight ride in.

With two of his Guard, he pushed the horse at an insane rate, reaching the camp in under two minutes from where he had been, three miles away.

Riding into the flaming camp, he saw two priests of the Brotherhood stand their ground against a black hooded figure. They both let loose a green ball of flame, which deflected off what seemed to be a magical shield around the interloper.

The interloper waved his hand, and the two priests burst into flames from the inside out. Alaric continued the horses' gallop, the interloper not seeing him yet. "So, is this the being that has tried to destroy our camp? Likely a servant of our enemies!" one of his Guard called out to him.

Alaric shook his head, unsheathed his rune blade and threw it from twenty yards, the barbed sword penetrating within the hooded figure. Alaric had little to smile about. The terrorist activity had nearly destroyed the camp and perhaps even the Waters! How did the Litch King find out about them? Or was it perhaps that fool Barak Demonlasher?

Slowing his steed, Alaric dismounted and walked past the flaming corpses of the priests. He pulled his rune blade out of the now dead interloper, the blood running off its edges.

"Just who are you?" one of the Guard spoke to himself, lifting the hood. With a gasp, the Blood Elf jumped back. "Lord Alaric…he is one of ours!"

"What? What nonsense-" Alaric then saw the face. Distinctly Elven, with long fine golden hair running down the length of his shoulders, the long pointed ears, the light that usually emanated from their faces gone though.

"I…know this Elf" Alaric said, stunned. He then shook himself awake "There are more of them! Find them! Even if you have to rip this camp apart, and bring them to me!" he said, beginning to search the rubble himself for survivors.

After searching for what seemed like hours, Alaric came upon old Tanin Firestar, nearly crushed under piles of stones and sharp wooden stakes. The only reason he survived was his great use of magic, creating a strong barrier of thick air between him and the rubble.

"Milord!" Tanin coughed "They…have taken a vial of the Waters!" was all he managed before passing out.

"Get this man a priest! Find a priest now!" Alaric screamed out, nothing but the flames answering him.

"Who could do this? Why would one of ours join them?" the thoughts raced in Alaric's mind faster than the speed of light, echoing as if bouncing off the sides of his skull.

Finally, one of his Guard returned with one of the uninjured Brotherhood priests, hearing his desperate calls for help. With Tanin taken care of, Alaric ran back into the belly of the beast, searching for the Waters.

Dodging pieces of popping wood and spots of flame, he finally made it to where the Waters used to be placed. Looking around in absolute horror, he could not see them at all.

But he could sense them…he still felt that bristling, tingling energy. Looking over his shoulder to a pile of wood, he quickly began to dig through the rubble. Finding a sunstone and gold lockbox, he carefully opened it, the ash on its surface smearing on his fingers.

"Thank the Light!" he cried out as he saw that all the vials were accounted for, save the one that the interlopers stole.

Finding his way out of the maze of fire, Alaric breathed in the fresh air. Yet the air wasn't all that fresh. It smelled like the burning flesh of live creatures, and he could still hear the screams from inside. Even with the fire brigade trying to save them, most who were in this portion of the camp were lost.

He numbly carried the box out of the flame, meeting another ash covered face; Dethal. "Milord! You found the Vials!" he cried out, rushing to meet Alaric.

Alaric just nodded, and collapsed onto the dirt. He handed Dethal the Vials, who then disappeared, most likely placing them in a safe place. Looking back out towards the sea, he could see a single ship moving _away _from the harbor trailed by a dozen smaller landing canoes.

"No, no, no, no! They are getting away!" Alaric cried out, feeling jolting back into his body once more. A group of soldiers nearby, obviously the guard of this portion of the camp just stood by idly. He grabbed one man, the captain of the regiment apparently, and screamed out "You let them in here! Now go catch them!" the human looked into his eyes with absolute resolve.

"Sir, my men have just been treated by the priests from a debilitating spell" he coolly replied.

"I don't care! Get them now!" Alaric yelled in the man's face, overcome with anger at whom had nearly destroyed their only chance of survival.

The man shuffled off with his men, racing towards the distant shore. But it was obvious that whomever they were, they could not be stopped. The canoes had already made it to the ship, which was now bearing southwest, towards the watery passages to Northrend. The traitors whom had plagued this army so long had gotten away totally clean.

Yet they were not content with that it seemed. The commandeered ship slowly turned to face the coast line where the rest of its sisters were anchored. With the sound like thunder and the huge bellowing clouds now rising from the ship, they had fired their dwarven cannon.

Twenty seconds passed until the cannon balls hit something; three ships that were carrying the dwarven gunpowder immediately went up in balls of flame. The ship continued to fire its deadly weapons, tearing sails and damaging the other ships, until it ran out of ammunition. Once again, it slowly turned towards the north, and continued, unworried about being chased by the paralyzed fleet.

Ruins of Tharenwind Harbor, Quel'thalas May 21st

The death toll had exceeded two hundred in the camp fire alone. In the fleet, nearly five hundred had died before ever reaching land, and another several dozen after. But all the bodies had been accounted for, and the records made.

Alaric called an emergency meeting with General Marcus, Eolas, Dethal, and Arrius. All but Eolas showed up. Alaric queried Dethal and Arrius on his whereabouts, but they did not know.

After the meeting, he had went into camp and asked scores of officers and enlisted men where he was, but none could give him an answer. He then went to the rosters of those whom had died, but Eolas was not on that either.

Slowly, the idea formed in his gut like a cold punch. He remembered the Elven face yesterday when the camp was burning, remembered the tactic that had been used to burn the priests from inside out. Several other blood elves and humans were missing along with a dwarf.

"A traitor…on the inside circle…one whom was considered a friend, companion…a brother…" Alaric's numb realization turned to hot anger. In his rage he must have unleashed a some kind of fire, seeing as how when the blind fury had been fought down, there was a circle of fire around him.

Pushing the flame down, he walked back towards the camp, barely keeping the fire within down. He went to Dethal's tent first of all, entering without comment and sat down on his cot. Dethal stared at him.

"Milord, what is it?" he asked.

"We have been betrayed…the Litch King knows our plans. I believe all this time he has been playing with us…seeing as how one of our most trusted friends has sold his soul to him…Eolas…that conniving bastard! He is no better than Arthas!" Alaric said, keeping his voice low in fear of letting the rage within back out again.

"Eolas? Milord, surely that is a mistake!" Dethal replied.

"No…it is no mistake. I have sensed something different in him ever since the destruction of the Sunwell…in some ways, I knew he was never the same…none of us were really. But, to strike a deal with the one that caused all this pain and suffering? It seems as though his sanity too has been shattered!" Alaric said, more speaking to himself than Dethal. "And the little fool took one of the Vials! He will bring it back to the Litch King, who will learn to use it…utilize its power…and protect himself from power such as it. It seems now that our fate is sealed. A ground invasion of Northrend is the only choice now…with the Brotherhood shattered, one of the Vials stolen, and the Scourge coming up from Stratholme, we must leave this place soon. Once again, Quel'thalas will be in the hands of the undead, but if we can destroy the Litch King, we undo the Scourge. That must be our goal now. When we reach Northrend, I shall deal with this most disgusting betrayal…myself" Alaric sighed, remembering how Eolas was once his most trusted comrade. "It has come to this then. One final assault, one final battle" he finally decided.

Dethal nodded in agreement. "Then let us prepare for this final battle milord! Once we reach Northrend, it will be a running fight, all the way to Icecrown. I have already drawn up maps to Daggercap Bay where we can land safely. Let this darkness forever be finished"

Alaric nodded, and slowly walked out of the tent, returning to his own.

"If there is any wish for your any of you men to leave, now is the time! I understand that we have been fighting for five months now with no reprieve. And some of you even longer than that! We will be entering the heart of the Scourge, into the most unforgiving landscape on this here Azeroth! There shall be no reinforcements, no backup. We shall stand or fall in that wasteland together, if that is your choice to go now.

When I look into the faces of you all, I see not a band of those who are fighting an inevitable shadow that they know will decend upon them…I see a group of men, elves, and dwarves who would give their very lives to protect and reclaim what has been ours for thousands and thousands of years!

It is clear to us, that the Scourge shall not be defeated any other way in this war, than to destroy their very bastion of power in Northrend. If that can be achieved, than all things are possible! If that is achieved, the Light shall accept all of you, as the crusaders of all good and hope! Now is your time of choice! Come with me, into the heart of this beast where we can forever secure the safety of our peoples, wives, and children. Come with me into this New Age, where all things are possible! Or leave, to your homes, and think on this day. Think, that if you had been there, could things have gone differently? Now is the time of your choice men of the 1st Army!"

The speech was over. He stood on a high bluff, overlooking a great portion of the camp where all the men had assembled in their columns and regiments. The expiration date of their enlistment had long been up, but here in the wastelands that were once great nations, the only safe place was the army. There were two ships leaving harbor back to Kul-Tiras. Two tickets out of the nightmare.

He stood quietly for a moment, before a cheer erupted. The 1st Army let forth its battle cries and cheers thirty five thousand strong. Alaric smiled. So, they would all be coming along. Into Northrend, where the heart of darkness lay.

That night, the fleet debarked. With all the men boarded and ready for this last fight, they left Quel'thalas of which they had so fought for. Behind them, the Argent Dawn, a guild of watchers and protectors would stay behind along with the last of the Brotherhood of Light's Clerics in Silvermoon. There, they would erect a great shield around the city, until help came to the besieged land once more.

But now, with all eyes turned north, the final, and greatest battles of the War of the Ruins were about to be fought on the shores, glaciers, and lands of arctic Northrend, where the Litch King lay in wait.


	22. Chapter 20: The Shores of Northrend

Chapter 20: Collation of Forces and the Shores of Northrend

"_We never paid heed to the ancient prophecies…_

_Like fools we clung to the old hatreds…._

_As we had for generations…_

_Until the day the sky rained fire, and a new enemy came upon us…_

_We stand now upon the brink of destruction, for the Reign of Chaos has come…" _

- Prophecy of the Burning Legion, and the Premonition of the fall of Lordaeron

"_Betrayer" _The voice in his head urged him "_You have delivered your people into their hands" _

"What people? There are none left" he said quietly, the howling wind blocking out his voice.

"_Atone for yourself before it is too late. Before _he _has your soul forever" _the voice that was his consciousness once again reminded him.

"He can have it. All that is left is to grasp what power he has promised me. For then, I shall attain true immortality, unlike to foolish tenants of the Holy Light. No, there is no turning back now. I am the Litch King's Will incarnate. The darkness is master now!" he reminded himself.

"_Then you are lost" _His conscious and sanity finally finished. The choice that Eolas had dreaded for so long was complete, his course set.

It was over. The great conflict of confusion between his past and present had ended. Eolas had made his final decision; to serve as the Litch King's will incarnate. He had been battling his inner demons since the destruction of Silvermoon, yet they always seemed to grow larger. With the help of his friend Alaric'Quel, whom he had escaped with, he was able to keep them subdued for a while…that was until the Litch King's crazing voice had entered his head, driving him to near insanity. That was many months ago…when they had first began their journey in Kalimdor and the campaign against the Orcs.

That darker voice allowed him no sleep, no reprieve. It brought the demons back up from deep within him, and slowly took over what he had strived so hard to become; a savior of his people and land.

The Dark Lord slowly stripped away the layers of defense he had thrown around his battered mind, taking information from him slowly, discovering all that he had helped in doing. In time, Eolas accepted the fact that the Litch King had chosen him as a vassal for his will. Soon enough, he felt honored as his sanity and mind became twisted by the Litch King's awesome powers.

It was in this time the Litch King threw great and wondrous images at him. Almost utterly consumed by such displays of power, his weakened mind fell prey almost immediately to the Lord of the undead. Images of a great paradise of eternal darkness. An ever stretching army of subjects to bring about such will, crushing quite literally _everything _in their way that lived, whether it be a man, or an ant, or a blade of green grass.

Slowly, he forgot his anger and vows to destroy kill such a magnificent lord of death. Slowly, the grandiose ideas fed to him by the Litch King grew, as his mind corrupted like a rotting tree.

But when he and the rest of this army of rabble had re-entered Silvermoon, and he saw the old ruins, the good within him resurfaced, if only for a little while. Since that moment, the great battles between his sanity and the power of the Lord of the undead had continued, further wracking his already tattered mind.

Until now. The deed was done, and Eolas had made his choice. His own choice. He had chosen the path that lay with the Litch King. The path into the cold, snowy northlands. Forsaking all that he had once held dear, beloved, and cherished, he, now with a small group of followers made their way to their new Lord's most glorious Tower to deliver the great prize that they had stolen from under the very noses of their former friends and allies.

"Lord Eolas" a new voice spoke out. But this one was not within him. It was from another. He turned his heavily coated body towards the sound, the snow now starting to come down from the gray clouds in heavy drifts. He turned to see the face of a snow-pale human, tattoos scattered across his face.

"Yes acolyte?" Eolas replied, the voice now filled with malice, cruelty, and the corruption of the Litch King.

"We have nearly reached Daggercap Bay. The Death Knights of Draktharon Keep should be on the shore awaiting our arrival"

"Good. But it will be I that delivers our great prize to the Litch King, not some foolish Death Knights. I shall be the one to bask in the glory of his presence" Eolas finished the statement by waving his hand at the acolyte in a clear gesture of annoyance at his presence.

Draktharon Keep had once been the place of safety for the people of the Lordaeronian settlement of Gundrak. Gundrak had been the north-most place of exploration of Azeroth. But before the Third War, it had been infected by the same plague that had so ailed Lordaeron, destroying its population and turning it into one of the first armies for the Litch King. Draktharon Keep had fallen shortly after and become the residence of the Dread Lord Mal'Ganis. Soon after Mal'Ganis' death, the Keep was abandoned and left to the snows, though Death Knights and Litches sometimes made their stay there before leaving on the ships to the Plaugelands where they would continue the war against the troublesome Alliance.

Standing up for the first time in many hours, Eolas stretched his muscles and observed the coastline that was so far off. His old friend, Alaric, would follow, of that he knew. He would try to redeem him, try to bring him back under the sway of the Light. Eolas chuckled at the thought. Only the Lord of Death held any sway over him now.

And in the end, the fool Alaric, and all his followers would die. When that happened, the last true hero's of the Alliance would be gone, for they all followed him and his idiotic machinations, there would be nothing left to oppose the Litch Kings final march south.

And so the Fleet had set sail. The great and renowned 1st Alliance Army, first in name and reputation in the grand Alliance, which had been commanded by the heroic and legendary generals of the Second War and fought against Orcs from the shores of the south to the very Tirisfal Glades, that had trudged through the knee deep recently plague infected corpses in the Third War to do battle with the vast ranks of walking dead, to the recent campaigns that had taken them from the besieged of Stromgarde to the ruins of Silvermoon, had set its eyes now on the vastly unexplored and mysterious Northrend.

Aided with reinforcements from Stromwind led by General Marcus Jonathan, their numbers near ten and a thousand, they had set sail on the combined fleets of Kul-Tiras and Azeroth.

They would march on the heart of the undead infestation nearly forty thousand strong, a grand army, the 1st Army. It's reputation had seen it to many victories and losses, yet hopefully, this would be a final decision. Perhaps it could all end here, in this desolate ice wasteland.

They were led by an Elf. The first Elf to command an army of the Alliance. There had been Elven generals and commanders, but never one to command an entire army. He had shown them that perhaps the misbegotten 'Long Ears' could actually command, and had led them on this long and strenuous campaign. They had learned to follow him, as they would any other human commander, whether it be Lord Lothar as the old grizzled veterans remembered, or the newer generation that had commanded them in the Third War.

Yet despite their many victories, across the Eastern Kingdoms the lands they had retaken silently fell once again. Stromgarde, Dalaran, Southshore, and Hillsbrad were now out of reach of the undead true, but the rest slowly felt the black curses falling upon them once more, the new ziggurats that spewed their life killing noxious fumes into the land.

For this war, there was but one chance left for the Alliance. To take the fight to the Scourge, and to finish the job once and for all. Already Gilneas had begun to show signs of complete withdrawal from not only the Alliance, but the entire world.

Their foolish King had erected a massive wall in the valley that connected them to the rest of Lordaeron, not letting even refugees through. This had to be the final push; the final battle that would decide this war, if there would be an end to the Scourge, or more fighting that could, dread be, stretch on forever in the battle scarred world of Azeroth.

These men knew it was up to them. And so, with solemn and quite indignation, they prepared themselves upon the ships that had come so far from their home ports. These were the hours that would decide the fate of the world…

Yet, not far behind them lay a bewildered army of night elves. Their expedition had taken them from the comforts of their home forests into this horrid land to destroy their out-of-control brethren, the Blood Elves, from using the Waters they so stole from their sacred resting place. And so they too, met with the ships that had borne them from their homes to this sorrowful place to chase their quarry, even if it took them to the very beyond.

Their leader had faced him in combat, and secretly, beneath his oath the hunt down every last one of the Vials that contained the Waters, he would kill the pale faced infidel that had so dishonored him…

And so, in the icy recesses of Northrend, a great battle would erupt. One, that would forever change the face of Azeroth…

Alliance Fleet, Northern Seas

Vice Admiral Jes-Tereth had set off with a fleet of nearly four hundred ships; all that remained of Kul-Tiras' navy after the exodus from Lordaeron led by the sorceress Jaina Proudmoore, Theramore Affair with the Horde and the Third War. Joining them from Menethil Harbor was the Navy of Stormwind, which bolstered their numbers to nearly seven hundred strong, with a force of thousands of sailors and marines.

She was by native birth of Azerothian blood, yet upon her promotion to Vice Admiral had been working closely with Grand Admiral Daelin, and after his death, Tandred Proudmoore to rebuild the Navy of the Alliance, in Kul-Tiras' capital.

Progress had been slow though, with all the nations of the Alliance nearly bankrupted by the war or relief for those who fled south. And now, without much warning, the entire fleet had been assigned to a lunatic mission to transport Alliance forces to Northrend; a nightmarish land filled with Light knows what creatures and beasts!

As if Tandred's father's death hadn't made things hard enough on her, Tandred not being quite the man his father was, the _entire _fleet had been sent off on this blasted, damnable quest.

They passed around the coast of Lordaeron, surveyed the ruins of once great harbor cities. Twice armada's of the undead had assailed them, and massive sea battles had occurred, yet with her expertise from the late Daelin Proudmoore's infinite mind for sea tactics, they had not only been able to win the two battles, but open a small channel to Northrend that would be completely safe for at least another month due to the utter destruction of the Scourge's navies.

They had been _her _victories, but the glory sucking Tandred Proudmoore, ever looking to lift his reputation, would of course take all the recognition.

"Vice Admiral, permission to speak!" a voice cut through the frigid air.

"Granted Captain" she replied, her voice of cold steel. Oft she would be mistaken for an angry and always annoyed person by her tone, yet that was the way she had been brought up, and lived with it.

"The Lord General wishes to confer with you in private" the captain of the _Sea Eagle _informed, breath forming great clouds as if he smoked a dwarven pipe.

"Inform him I shall be with him immediately. Let the good General into the Vice Admiral's Galley if you will"

The Captain nodded, stood at attention and saluted before pivoting away on the wooden deck. Looking above, a vast overcast hung across the sky. White sprinkles began to fall from the dark clouds. They drew close to Northrend.

"And so the troop deployments will be around three main areas in Daggercap Bay. It is most suited for landing and anchoring a fleet of this size" the long eyebrows of the Elf twitched as he spread his hand across the incomplete map of the northern continent.

Jes-Tereth nodded calmly. She knew not these waters, but in the latter days of Lordaeron the great expedition led by Prince Arthas had thoroughly explored this area as well as the interior all the way to the now abandoned Drak'theradon Keep.

"We should position the navy here" she said, pointing towards a small alcove near the western cliff face "It could maintain a strong defensive position as well as be close enough to ferry troops from a retreat back to us in short time"

The Lord General, Lord Alaric'Quel, last known descendent of the royal Sunstrider's of Quel'thalas, gave her a look of approval.

"So today the landings begin" he said quietly. This would be the greatest military campaign of the Alliance since the many battles with Grand Marshal Garithos, and his great and ultimate failure. The fool had shunned help at all sides from which they came. Elves, dwarfs, and even wayward (or thought to be so) naga had offered their services, yet one after the other he had offended them into splitting their pact to him as a commander.

And a foolish one he was. Garithos had served in the Second War as a knight of Lordaeron, yet had always clung to the days when prejudices had been strong between the races of the Alliance. He had risen through the ranks in the Third War, when most other commanders had either been killed or went missing. Eventually given the rank of Grand Marshal of Alliance Forces, he had foolishly sent them in waves after waves against the enemy with no tactics or strategy at all, just one bloody day after another. A most incompetent commander indeed.

And then there had been the ill fated Anduin Praeton, who took command after Garithos. By then the Third War had ended, and most major action was done with. Praeton was a vast improvement over Garithos, with his skill and caution in tactics and battle. He was never without bad luck though. When the Battle of Hillsbrad occurred months ago, nearly his entire force was shattered by the overwhelming numbers of the Scourge. Yet he managed to scrape them together to save Southshore from complete razing…

And then of course came the Elven commander, Alaric Faltron'Quel. A first among his kin to bear the title of Grand Marshal of Alliance Forces. It was thought by Jes to be highly symbolical of the unity in the war-torn and shattered Alliance. And he too proved to be of great knowledge of battle, creating enormous success if only for a little time. She had been told by his men that he was always bright faced, youthful looking, and confident and brash.

Yet today she did not see that. She saw a weary soul in need of confession. Faith in the Holy Light at such times could be quite granting when it came to mental health as well.

The run down looking commander then turned his back, the preparations now complete. At exactly noon today, the 1st Corps of the 1st Army would storm the beaches.

Daggercap Bay, Noon

Glorious: that was the only word for it. Genn Blackswift saw the beginning himself. Hundreds upon hundreds of landing craft each bearing three dozen a man rowing towards the icy shoreline.

It had begun to snow the night before, and the troops all received the warm rations that the northern navies were used to. They also had been issued winter clothing, to fit under and above their plate and mail; scarves, coats, thick soled boots, hoods, fur under garments, and more.

Their weapons had been cleaned for the most part, the blood stains ripped off the blade by the good ol' soap and water. Today, this young farming man from the outskirts of Haventown, Stromgarde would assail the very shores of the mystical and mysterious northern lands that so few had ever seen.

He and the thousands of others stared in awe as they pushed slowly away from the fleet led so skillfully here by Admiral Tandred Proudmoore and Vice Admiral Jes-Tereth. Pride filled the hearts of all as they saw the banners, streamers, and colors of their respective nations and the Alliance flying high and straight in the bone-chilling winds.

It was a scene like no other. In force the leading elements of the invasion force of Northrend began to reach the icy beaches, yet no Undead greeted them with sword or arrow.

It took great effort to get the boat through the semi-thin ice and to the shore, yet Genn and his rowers were able to do so. Before any of his men did so, Genn hoped out of the rowboat, his legs submerging in the knee-deep numbingly cold water. He slogged his way up onto the beach, where when he set foot the satisfying crunch of snow was heard.

Northrend: They were on the roof of the world, the end of the world... "A romantic thought" he chuckled, as he signaled for the rest of his men to disembark. To the sides he saw the other rowboats emptying, as the 1st Army of the Grand Alliance set foot on the home turf of the Scourge.

One day later

The Army marched in battle formation. Alaric positioned his command near the center of the lines. They had all come upon the shore without problems and the Navy had laid anchor where it was.

Just beyond the mile long beach was a steep embankment which was covered by dead and thin trees, yet their quantity in the grove that they lay upon blocked out the sight from behind them. The Army now marched up the base of the mountains that lay in front of them. According to the old navigation charts, there was a labyrinth of passages and canyons at the top of the rugged terrain.

The five corps of the Army, thirty nine thousand eight hundred and sixty one souls in total, each with its divisions, battalions, and regiments marched at each others flanks with cavalry in between each gap to protect in case of a sudden breakthrough. Pike men and footmen covered the frontal lines and right behind were the archer regulars.

The mages were dispersed throughout the lines. The Knights of the Silver Hand also rode with them, acting as generals and advisors to the Lords and Nobles that commanded a vast portion of the Army.

His own Blood Elven breatheren were also scattered across the Army, many taking up vital positions. They were few as always, since that dark time when that bastard Arthas had ravaged their land. Along with the gryphon riders of Aeire Peak, many Dragonhawks, majestic, mystical creatures that were once friends of the Elves before the scourging of Lordaeon, had come forth and heeded the call of the Elves once more.

Alaric surveyed the grand scene from the rear and center. To his fore the thousands of men and women of the Alliance slowly trudged up the steep hill, with no knowledge of what lay before them. The scouts were due back half an hour ago, yet had not returned.

"I shall wait one more half hour. If they are not back, then you shall scout the situation out yourself eh?" he chuckled to Dethal, who sat quietly on his mount, long ears twitching in the cold.

Alaric thought back to the battles he had fought, the skill of tactics and its different applications on the battlefields. The battles for Stromgarde, the ruins of the Capital, the Tirisfal Glades, and Silvermoon, not to mention the dozens of smaller scale battles that they had already encountered.

The War of the Ruins was a muse. A small part in his plan, of which he never truly revealed to anyone, to draw forth most of the armies of the Scourge so that his own force could land upon the shores of Northrend, and from there topple Icecrown Throne, and utterly vanquish Arthas, the Litch King, with the Waters of Eternity, the only thing powerful to destroy a being of such intense energy.

That though was only the second choice…the first being that they made it to Silvemoon and were able to use the magics of the place to shred Northrend to pieces from there, alas though Eolas had betrayed him…once his best friend and most loyal subject, turned to the side of death and sorrow. In some ways he felt more than betrayal, he felt a vast, eternal well of rage inside him, just one more tragedy on the list.

"Betrayal is the most cowardly thing one can do, and the worst feeling to the one whom has been betrayed…" Alaric thought, watching the vast plumes of breath rise from the Army as they panted their way up the steep incline.

As the Army continued up the mountain top Alaric's sharp elven eyes caught the movement of an envoy of five knights, their once oiled and gleaming armor now dirtied and covered in bloodstains, riding towards his command point.

"Milord! Milord!" the lead knight cried out. They were the scouts he had sent out earlier, yet only half their number had returned. The knights trotted up to them now, horses sweat beginning to freeze in the frigid temperature, their breath roiling up in massive clouds, icicles hanging from some of their beards.

"Aye!" Alaric called back waving his hand in the air, which caused small clinking noises on his terraced shoulder plate.

The knight's mount now bore him to Alaric's front, where he quickly saluted the elf.

"Lord General, a vast army of the undead gathers just beyond the hills! They're numbers stretch beyond the horizon, though we did spot a slight in their lines to the northeast" the knight confirmed his suspicions. The Litch King would not allow him to march upon the Icecrown Glacier without a fight. But yes, these men and women would barrel themselves through the abominations, the skeletons, and the other foul beasts that the Scourge incorporated into its fold.

"Good work man. The information will be used greatly in the battle soon to come. May the Light be with you" he dismissed the knight and his envoys, whom trotted slowly back towards the base camp which lay some quarter of a league behind the Army's slow ascent.

With the information readily received, Alaric begun to file out reports and orders to the many runners that had begun to gather around his mount.

1st Corps, 8th Regiment, upon the hill

Genn moved past the ranks of his men, of whom had recently been combined with the 21st Dwarven Warriors. They now numbered three hundred and four. His Captains, Jordann Valleran, a stout human of the small farming communities of Westfall, and Thormace Belgarlan, the leader of the dwarven troops added to his own, slowly trudged up the icy hillside beside him.

"We are approaching the peaks" Jordann muttered as he blew warm air into a cup he made with his hands in a futile attempt to warm his nearly frostbitten fingers. The dwarves that had recently joined them apparently seemed to be enjoying the cold air though.

In front of them the leading elements of the Army began to move to battle formation. Yet he could see little beyond them. The mass of tangled brown vines and dead trees blocked out any picture of what lay below the tall hill.

Now to his sides he began to hear the shouts for the second line, which included his infantry detail, to form up into battle lines.

"OK, boys, lets do this right. Captain Valleran, you take Second Company. Captain Belgarlan," he pointed to the dwarven captain whose soldiers had been added to his own, "you take Third Company. Form up on my flanks, and may the Light be with you…we'll need it I believe" he said quickly, nodding his head to each of the captains whom nodded back.

The hill began to level out now. They were on its top, weaving their way through the dark, lifeless trees and long labyrinth canyons that stretched across the roof of the hills.

Genn tightened his grip around his sword, which hung anxiously at his side. Glancing behind him, he saw that the men's eyes were filled with fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of death. Just…fear…and yet, courage; courage to stand up to the most powerful force in the world. It was men like these that would decide the day; harderned veterans who had fought for years against the common enemy.

Just ahead Genn saw that the weak light of the sun, (surprising enough that it had risen at all in this forsaken wasteland), began to permeate through the thinning trees. Marching forward, following the first lines, Genn now began to feel the slight warmth of the sun on what little of his skin was uncovered by clothing or armor.

And below him, stretching to the distant mountain ranges and perhaps even beyond was a vast black carpet that blocked out the white snow and blue ice. It seemed like a massive nest of ants that spilled over the landscape, covering the hidden ice caves, sudden drops, and other terrain.

Genn's heart dropped. It was the largest thing he had ever seen: larger than the battle against the orcish Horde at Mulgore Plains; larger even than the great host that had assailed them at the Bulwark of Tirisfal.

The horns blared. The first lines slowly began to double march, and then charge into the enemy. Below them, the lines of silver clad footmen, arched over head by the arrows of the archers, and smoke from the dwarven rifle regiments began to clash with the waves of undead ghouls, abominations, and other beasts that the Litch King ruled over.

His battle line, several thousands strong, now began its slow decent into the inferno below. Genn steeled his heart for the beginning of the end, and perhaps one of mankind's greatest chapters of history.

Minutes passed as he and the battle line slowly made their way down the path, to where the front lines, where now hundreds of cavalry led by hearty knights broke through the first wave of undead.

The horns blared again…Genn's mind froze. Slowly he turned his head to look at the flag bearers in the regiments that flanked him. They were going in, their men dressed to the colors.

The thumping noise of cavalry rushed in from behind them, another wave of the horse bound riders intent on keeping the breaks that the first battle line had created in check. Genn unsheathed his sword with painful slowness, strained his heavy armored arm into the air, and let forth a shrill battle cry.

The battle had begun. It was time…

Profile: The Undead Scourge

From the cold recesses of Northrend they came. A vast army of mangled and ravaged corpses that had risen from the grave. Joined by the beasts of the north that had been tamed by the dread Litch King, the former orc warlock Ner'zhul, they began a massive invasion of the northern human kingdom of Lordaeron, after a plague of undeath had been seeded throughout its northern provinces. The necromantic army of undeath slowly grew with each passing battle, the forces of Lordaeron being mostly lead by the Crown Prince of the Throne, Arthas Menethil. After Arthas's taking up of Frostmourne, his very soul was torn from him, and he became the first of the Litch King's Death Knights and vassals. Under his command, the armies of the Scourge crushed Lordaeron, and went on to become one of the most powerful forces that Azeroth has ever seen…

12


	23. Chapter 21: The Clash of Frost and Flame

Chapter 21: The Clash of Frost and Flame

Ironforge, the High Seat, June 27th

King Magni Bronzebeard, Thane of the Bronzebeard Clan, Lord of the fortress city Ironforge, and integral member of the Grand Alliance, stared across the Great Forge which his ancestors had striven to create. The Forge, lying in the center of the city of Ironforge, was a symbol to all dwarves of Khaz Modan of their heritage and power over earth and stone.

Though the War of the Three Hammers had split the Clans, the Bronzebeard and Wildhammer Dwarves continued to flourish, though alas these darker days had appeared.

The Second War had all but imprisoned the dwarves of Khaz Modan and Dun Morogh in the few last standing bastions of Earthen might, yet thanks to the humans and their Alliance the Dwarves were freed. In that most glorious time Magni had pledged himself and his people to the Alliance wholly. Peace he thought was just there on the horizon, when the Scourge appeared, and wiped out Lordaeron, one of the greatest human nations. But the carnage did not stop there. A massive invasion of the High Elven kingdom of Quel'thalas also succeeded, and then the invasion of the Burning Legion at Dalaran had all but ruined the northern continent. Yes, dark times these were indeed.

"Hail, King Bronzebeard of Ironforge!" to his right flank a voice erupted, its hearty tone and highland accent clearly that of a dwarf. He noticed the shabbily dressed dwarf with dirty red hair standing in front of him as a messenger he had sent of to Stormwind weeks earlier.

"Aye, and so ye have returned Grimdor Hallis. What news do ye bring of the outside world?"

The dwarf, bowing ever lower, answered back in a nervous tone

"Milord, the human King wishes to report that Gilneas has pulled steak and abandoned the Alliance, and also that the land invasion of Northrend has begun"

Anger welled up inside Magni. Gilneas had ever been the isolationist, and now that things weren't looking too good, again they decided to barricade themselves behind their wall. But on the other hand, this new Lord Marshal had actually invaded Northrend, against his every belief.

Northrend…a word he so loathed. He had lost his brother, Muradin, there to whatever damnable forces lay on that continent, and now his youngest brother had gone of in some ill fated adventure to discover what it was that befell his elder.

Hiding his emotions Magni replied shortly

"There is no turning back now for this Grand Marshal 'Quel now…his fate is his own"

And with that said, Magni turned back overlooking the Great Forge where his dwarven brethren continued to pump out the much needed machines for the war effort.

June 27th, Northrend, the Eleventh Hour

Ahead the battle proceeded, leaving a wake of dead and wounded. They had pushed a several miles inland, thrusting into the lines of the Scourge with quick jabbing movements.

Duke and Lord General Tal Winfield looked upon the din of battle, where the entirety of his 1st Corps, the heart of the old 1st Army as they proceeded. Activity spiraled around him, runners being sent off almost as quickly as he had come up with the orders to tell them; most of the time he didn't even have the chance to elaborate on his instructions and directions. That could bring everything down.

To their front lay a vast expanse of open ice and snow fields, then succeeded by several miles of mountain range to the north and stretching on to the west. After that it was the icy caverns of the mysterious place called Ajol-Nerub. Next to nothing was known about how to traverse that area, so instead the force would bypass the bulk of it, forming an echelon on its southern flank to protect it against any force that might try and attack them from the rear until they got to the dangerous glaciers of Icecrown.

But for now, the tactic was set. A vast host of the enemy had beset their entire front. The first five hours had proven to be quite inconclusive, leading only to the slaughter of hundreds of his finest men. After the front lines had bogged down into a stalemate, the wizards and mages of what remained of the Kirin Tor's fighting force unleashed a massive magical storm upon the ranks of the undead as they had during the Siege of Dalaran, mowing many thousands of the walking dead down for good.

And into the breach the Grand Marshal and High General, Alaric'Quel, had told him to go. Four regiments of his top crack men and a platoon of red and silver clad cavalry from Stromgarde poured into the break like water through cracks in the Scourge's line of battle.

Reports of massive casualties were already streaming in with the many runners that had accumulated around him; they had begun to roll the Scourge's line up as the 2nd Corps did the same, and the 4th, with the 3rd and 5th in reserve, flanked the undead army yet at a frightful cost.

And still the fighting was not over. Though some of the leading elements of the Scourge's force had melted under their combined attacks many more still now began to reform around the base of the northern mountains. It was in the hands of the men now.

"General! General! Captain Grimes of the 1st Division begs for his men to be relieved. He estimates over one third casualties. Most of his men are collapsing where they were just fighting! He says that he cannot hold the gap open much longer" a sudden voice cut through the air.

A young boy, probably in his late teens stood wide-eyed in front of him waving a hastily written letter in the air.

Now it was getting out of hand. His Corps was completely fought out, reeling from hundreds of losses. True they had broken the Undead here, and that the 3rd was flanking the opposing army, as he could see their battle lines mowing through the Scourge, but now they had completely lost momentum. If the Undead decided to counterattack on his direct position his entire line would crumble…

_Like they did that first battle…_ he thought, thinking back to his first trounce with the Scourge in Valden Hamlet in southern Lordaeron two years back when the first relief force had been able to make it past Dalaran.

"Tell him to hold his position as long as possible. I am sending an additional two regiments to him as we speak. Once they arrive he can start pulling his most battered units out of the fray, but only them" he ordered out.

Next, he pointed to an elder runner, and gestured to the battle ready reserve regiments forming up on the ridge of the hill

"Get those men into battle formation. We need to reinforce Captain Grimes' line of engagement. When they position properly, the 32nd Stormwind Cavalry will rush into the gaps between your lines"

The runner nodded and was off. He quickly put his fur gloved hands together, trying to rub some warmth into the ironically heat deprieved digits of his.

How he wished to be back in the warmth of an Elwynn spring; the gentle sunlight beaming through the tall trees, the sound of the forest waking up to the morning, the smithy's rhythmic hammer, the soft touch of his bride, their marriage a year that past week, the rabbits coming out of their holes to pick on the farmers crops…that would definitely make a better meal now than the foul rations they brought with them and the meager scrapings off the land.

His mind snapped back to reality as a sudden bolt of chaotic energy exploded several dozen yards from him. Bodies were flung through the air…screams…the taste of blood in his mouth…

"The Lord General is down! The General is down! Get him a stretcher now!" he could hear his aide shouting out frantic and desperate orders. Slowly, a warm pool of blood began to form under his back. Looking up into the sky, he could see that dark clouds now gathered, and that snow had begun to fall. That was the last thing he noticed before blacking out.

The Frontlines:

Genn sliced his broadsword in another swing, crushing through the skull of one of his soldiers. The one's life he had just ended had been possessed by a banshee spirit loyal to the damnable Undead, effectively ending whatever sanity and restraint the man might've had before.

Across the line of battle though, success was being met. The great siege ballistae and catapults along with a regiment of dwarven steam tanks were putting on a fearsome toll for the Undead beasts.

To the far left of the battlefield the 3rd Corps had successfully began to break up the Scourge, whom were left in a chaotic state as their leaders panicked and turned tail.

"This is almost too easy" Genn thought to himself. The idea had been a simple one; a major assault along the front with a flanking force of heavy cavalry and an entire corps of troops…yet no one had expected the Undead to route so easily…

He could see the disorder spreading through their ranks as far as a mile down, slowly etching closer towards his line of battle. In a matter of minutes he would order the regiment to push fully into the Undead, to crumble their lines and push them along with the rest of the army hopefully as far as the steep hills in the distance, perhaps a league off.

"Push em' boys!" he shouted out, wiping the grime from his eyelids. The snow was falling heavily now, at an incessant rate. Wind too had picked up, causing dangerous frostbite on the hands of his footmen.

The regiment cheered as they strode forward, hacking and slashing at the ailing beasts of the north and other underlings of the Litch King. Genn could see it now, the discord in the rest of the Undead lines had reached them, and now they began to stare around dumbly or attack one another in some cases; but they still fought. They still killed.

After successive minutes of hard pushing, the lines of his men and the 1st Corps met up with those of the flanking troops, and finally ended the battle. Nearly six hours had passed since the fighting had started. As he had heard from the command chain, the Lord General Winfield had been wounded, and now Captain Loren, another whom had traveled to Kalimdor with the enigmatic Alaric'Quel, had taken over the troops.

The Undead were completely routed from the field, much of their number now carpeting the icy plains, quickly being covered up by the heavy snow. Genn reformed his battle weary regiment, now half their number. The dwarf, Belgarlan had pushed his troops nearly to the center of the Undead lines, and had won great heroism and praise from command.

But it still didn't feel right…The Undead had been pushed too easily from the field. Never had they fled from battle as they had today, most of the creatures instead fighting to the death.

Fears confirmed, on the horizon, beyond another small set of rolling snow covered hills, a great thumping sound began to resonate. Alarmed he looked around to see that others noticed it too, and that small platoons of cavalry were scattering about the front of the mile off hills.

"In line boys! FORM RANKS NOW!" he shouted out at the men whom only moments ago been gloating over their victory were now shattered.

As his regiment formed ranks again so did that of the army's unprotected flank. He saw the dwarven captain rush up to him muttering in dwarvish, pushing through a flow of hollow eyed men as they reformed and emboldened themselves.

"Kharak zhun krakk'an darz" he repeated one more time before looking directly into Genn's eyes.

"Best prepare yourself boyo', cus I ain't never seen anything like this 'efore"

On those distant hills, a long, snaking, black line began to appear. Battle flags and standerds bearing the Skull and Swords of the Scourge slowly rose on the horizon followed quickly by the outlines and silhouettes of great abominations and monsters.

As the dark line continued to cover the top of the hills, thousands of pikes and lances began to show as the lesser denizens of the army of the dead approached. The front ranks, thousands of rotting corpses and skeletons.

The dark sky began to grow darker now as the elaborately robed litches, somewhere beyond the hills cast spells of frost and storm. The snowfall doubled in almost half a minute and winds began to pick up. The men, closely packed together set off the illusion that a great cloud of steam rose from the army as their breath left them upon seeing the enemy.

Along the front of the enemy's force, black clad horsemen zipped about, pointing their minions toward battle. Those Death Knights, with their dread Fel-Steeds continued about their leading oblivious to the great masses beginning to drop from the clouds above.

Great frost wyrms, the corpses of dragons, rotting, festering carcasses that were a twisted abomination of all that dragonkind stood for, the hideous and terrifying gargoyles, great beasts of the north, the creatures known only as "Destroyers", their unholy form draining those they saw as enemies of their magical essence, and more began to descend from the graying sky.

The beasts of the north and the Undead continued their slow march, many of their underlings emitting foul plague ridden clouds of disease. Beyond the hills, the sky lit in a blue aura, and then suddenly dozens of blue fireballs were launched from the hills, arcing lazily in the sky before crashing down on the preparing army of the Alliance.

Dozens died within seconds, many only seeing the flash of blue light before the darkness embraced them. Yet the black continued to engulf the hills, moving directly on them.

The terrifying forms of the demonic Nathrezim or Dreadlords appeared, sifting through the ranks of the undead, many of them falling into line with the Scourge after the Burning Legion's defeat.

More and more horrifying, unholy, objects continued to pass, all followed by an endless maw of undead beings.

Genn stared on in passivity, all feeling shaken out of him. Whatever this force was that was assailing them, it far outnumbered them. From behind came the sudden squawk followed by a massive fleet of gryphons ridden by their loyal Wildhammer dwarves and elven guided dragonhawks filling the skies to answer the call of aerial battle.

"SEND EM BACK TO THE GREAT BEYOND!" cries from the sergeants began to rise up. The army soon was worked into frenzy as the call was resonated and multiplied.

The lines of the Alliance began to move forward to answer the challenge of their enemy. And soon, the world would behold the clash that would shake its foundations.

Frontlines of the Scourge

Eolas Deathweaver rode upon his new mount; a skeletal steed with glowing purple eyes and fiery hooves. He leveled his blade, now carved with demonic runes of great power, and focused it toward the mass of armored ants below the slight depression of the hills.

He had seen the citadel of Icecrown. Had laid his sword to the Litch King's feet and utterly bound himself to his will forever. And now, as his first official act as the Litch King's servant he along with the other Death Knights were to lead this most glorious army to the destruction of the Alliance fools whom had followed.

True the army was immense, but it was all that was scraped up from Northrend. The attack had surprised Eolas, whom thought Alaric would stay in Quel'thalas and tend to his plants and broken city and so the Scourge had left the bulk of its forces in the Plaguelands. It mattered not now though.

This vast host was meant for one thing; to guard Northrend and to finish the scourging of the world.

"It will be done" Eolas uttered his voice dark and dry now.

Behind lay the ranks of the undead. Behind him he saw the host, reaching to the horizon and beyond. To the left and right the frontline, made of festering zombies, feral ghouls, and decomposed skeleton pikemen and swordsmen, stretched beyond his enhanced vision.

Holding up the corrupted elven blade of which he had aptly named "Defiler" over his head he ordered a halt to his troops, nearly a third of the force. And nearly immediately his new mental powers stopped them dead in their tracks. Smiling at such a show of force in the powers of the Litch King, Eolas laughed with the joviality of a madman.

"There is the Alliance! There lays there hope! Crush them my warriors! Onward to death!" he then shouted out.

He began his charge, of which his innumerable warriors followed. Still laughing with the intensity of a thousand demons, he unleashed his foul black magic upon the hapless Alliance frontlines. In seconds a dozen footmen's skin was melted off in their armor.

Eolas Deathweaver swung Defiler at the footmen in his path, quickly cutting a hole in their line as his forces smashed into them as well. Taking the life out of those whom he had once called allies gave him nothing but glee and the blood upon his blade brought no greater joy to Eolas's now twisted and wretched mind.

With the darkness at his command and the new knowledge of necromancy, he lifted his hands from the stirrups and uttered a word in the language of the demons, and soon those whom had fallen around him began to stir. Those that had enough left of them began to rise, stumbling and tripping, but with enough control the start swinging their swords and falling upon the soldiers of the Alliance.

The animated dead fell upon their former allies with no contempt or mercy. Eolas commanded them and kept up his own fight at the same time with the amazing new powers that the Litch King had granted him.

Suddenly a crash came upon him as his steed crumbled beneath. He jumped quickly, landing on his feet to see a paladin, a tall and proud grey eyed human with a salt and pepper beard, coming straight at him amidst the chaos.

He quickly dodged the oncoming mace, which swept only a few millimeters away from his own now whitening hair. Backstepping he brought Defiler over his great skull shoulder plate armor and parried another swing from the Paladin. Eolas then unleashed a spell of darkness, only to have it absorbed by the Paladin's magical energy shield. In a lightning set of steps Eolas twirled around the Paladin and thrust Defiler in his back, twisting and turning the blade until the Paladin fell to his knees, and then fell for the final time onto the snowy ground.

Eolas filled with sweeping confidence as he charged head on into the forces of the Alliance seeking blood.

Alliance Command, Northrend 

It was now or never that they would break the lines of the Scourge and march on Icecrown, the supposed seat of the Litch King's power ; before him was arrayed a vast army, many tens of thousands strong.

This was the ultimate culmination of the Third War and the War of the Ruins. The mind's psyche had all but been snapped now, and the warriors, whether they be his brethren, dwarvish, or the various human nations, all sped forth craving for the timely death of their enemy.

Alaric pulled the reins on his steed, stopping it before the front lines. He surveyed the battlefield as his legions moved forward. These men were no different now, whatever race or country they came from. They were a band of brothers dedicated to stand or fall together in this wasteland. And thus the battle commenced.

With a deafening cry the lines of infantry hurled themselves into the enemy. Fireballs, ice storms, ballistae bolts, catapult balls, and more filled the skies. Dwarven riflemen cocked and reloaded their blunderbusses inflicting a terrible toll on the ghoulish minions of the Scourge.

Yet just beyond the front lines necromancers, damned living men that had sold their souls to the Litch King for power and eternal life in death, began the rituals of raising the dead.

Mass chaos ensued.

Alaric had already lost the Duke of Goldshire, Lord General Tal Winfield, whom was behind the lines being tended to, his wound near mortal. His old subordinate, Captain Loren, commander of a regiment of Lordaeronian survivor volunteers that had fled south to Stormwind, and whom had also accompanied him on the Expedition through Kalimdor, had taken the wounded Duke's place. In main command of the front line was General Jonathan Marcus of Stormwind, a seasoned and impressive commander.

Dethal and the few Clerics that had come with him now watched carefully as the battle played out. Hidden under Alaric's ebony magic resistant cape a small magically enhanced wooden case. Inside the case were six of the original nine vials filled with the mystical Waters of Eternity.

Alaric could feel their impossible power swelling inside, and he had almost been able to use them until the traitor Eolas had stolen three of the precious vials from their own camp.

A wave of emotion overcame Alaric for a moment as he thought of his old friend. No, that person was dead; gone forever, replaced by a maddened and insane puppet.

"It is time sire" Dethal whispered.

Alaric nodded as he slowly slipped the case out carefully, looking around with a fatherly stare to see if anything was to disturb the Waters. Unlatching it, he looked upon the faintly shimmering droplets of Water…yet…not truly water as much as the pure essence of magic.

"Let us begin" he said in a ghostly voice. Alaric unchained the Book of Medivh which had been secretly stowed also under his jet black cape. He opened the dusty tome of power to a certain page which had symbols and runes strewn across it.

"The Litch King, with his power already and the Waters of which he has stolen shall try and stop us" Tanin Firestar, the Arch-Cleric said solemnly to which Alaric nodded. "We too have been weakened by leaving Clerics to set up magical barriers in Silvermoon against the Scourge's attack" he ended.

"But not in vain! We could not let it sit helplessly after we had worked so hard to take it back" Dethal rebuked. It mattered not. Alaric silenced them, and slowly unplugged the first Vial.

Small tendrils of blue energy seeped out of the vial as if the Waters themselves were reaching for freedom. Selecting a satisfying phrase from the Book of Medivh, Alaric uttered a word and a Circle of Power which illuminated the dirt-and-snow ground in ancient runes, appeared beneath him and the two other spell casters.

With the other two casters feeding him their mana and energy, Alaric directed the vapor of pure essence of magic across the field, eliminating hundreds of undead warriors with just a few fell strokes. He felt the infinite energies flowing through him, giving him a power of unfathomable thought; though he could feel that even the mighty Book of Medivh prevented him, or anyone, even the Litch King, from utilizing most of the magic from the Waters as it lacked the knowledge of such a power. Most of the magic just seemed to slip out of his body like sand in someone's hand.

Yet across the battlefield seemingly random battalions and groups of undead and northern beasts were suddenly crushed by walls of air, or sudden gusts of wind picked them up and threw them to their deaths. Others were pulverized by an inner fire and others in a great magical storm that had broiled up and wiped out many warriors.

Just before Alaric was about to orchestrate a crushing blow of energy across the field he felt a sudden resistance…a great force, cold, analytical, calculating; a great wall of conciseness, of power with no bound…a decaying evil that had slept long and awaited this moment. And suddenly he was thrown a dozen feet backward off his horse, whose neck was instantly snapped by the force of the wall of air that slammed into them.

Concentration broken, Alaric dazedly looked around. He could see his troops, the men whom had so bravely come along on this intrepid campaign being wiped out in great scores. A great dark wave of blackness, energy from the Twisting Nether swept the battlefield killing hundreds. Another great storm now intermingled with his own, creating a vast vessel of destruction. Lighting, blizzard, and more fell from the black skies.

_You are the one. You shall die now. _A voice exploded though his head, ripping though his conciousness like a knife through wet parchment.

Around him the land became a great vessel of destruction. The roots of the earth shot up in great spires of rock, fire rained from the sky, magic and bloodlust swept the field. Destruction reigned…

Alaric slowly pulled his mental might together and shielded his innermost thoughts from the Voice.

_DIE _It repeated.

A crushing pain coursed through his head as the Voice commanded his death. But in that moment a barrage of thought came upon Alaric; The city of Silvermoon, the grasses of Quel'thalas, the forests of the realm, the great Elfgates.

"_NOO!" _he shouted back, forcing the vile precense from his mind. And suddenly he was awake again, noticing the cold on his back from the snow.

Alaric, slowly getting up noticed that Dethal was cut several times on the face, yet the wounds were superficial. Tanin was luckier, able to shield himself from the great blast of energy.

"It is the Litch King! He is using his own power combined with the stolen Vials against us!" Tanin shouted out.

"We must regain control of the battlefield now!" Alaric replied, voice hoarse and tired from his strenuous work of directing magic.

Across the field the Alliance was in chaos, confused and out of order from the sudden out-of-thin-air attacks that had assailed them. But the Scourge pushed in on that caving, and began to take ground.

"We must use the magics against him! Or at least nullify him enough for us to push on!" Alaric shouted out once again as both Dethal and Tanin Firestar set up behind him to start channeling again.

Once again the feeling of feeling of the pure power from the magic came upon him. And so the battle continued…

The Plains of Drath'rakker, center of the battle

Arrius the Pure, High Paladin of the Order of the Silver Hand swung his might warhammer over his head, crushing the feeble skeleton that had stood up to him.

"AT EM'!" he shouted again, and a new surge of armor clad warriors rushed up behind him. What was called the Plains of Drath'rakker here had become the center of the battle, the two titanic forces throwing their weight against each other.

Arrius knew though that the battle was slowly being lost. Slowly the lines were being unraveled into a chaotic mass of no order. Soon order would cease to exist and the lines would fall apart.

Hundreds, if not thousands had died this day. Swinging around Arrius sliced three legs off a nerubian spider swarmer, which hobbled around in pain, trying to get its balance back. Before it could, Arrius took his warhammer, Verigan's Fist, and smashed it down on the overgrown insect's puny head, splattering green ichor all over himself and the bloody snow.

"Make way! Make way! Pull the Lord back from battle!" shouts arose. Suddenly Arrius felt the arms of his men pulling him away from the battle.

"How dare you…!" he thought, angered that they would not allow him to lead them.

A bloodied and bandaged footman appeared before Arrius in a break in the fighting.

"Milord, the reserves, Lieutentant Aman's men, have engaged a force of Night Elves!"

Arrius stared blankly into his face as the sound of battle erupted on the far side of the battlefield…

The Plains of Drath'rakker 

This was it. Sweet, exquisite revenge. Barak Demonlasher had been following the heathen Highborne that had identified himself as Alaric'Quel for months now. He been charged with tracking, and killing if necessary, the rouge Highborne whom had stolen several phials full of the most sacred and dangerous Waters of Eternity.

He had fought this Alaric upon Mt. Hyjal, only to be humiliated and defeated. He had then followed to the toxic plagueland of Lordaeron, a shattered place of great sadness. When he tried to commune with nature, he barely felt any answer at all showing of just how ravaged the region was.

There he had found his quarry, and nearly destroyed the feeble army that followed him, yet it seemed the arrogant Highborne was more than a match for his tactical prowess, leaving behind a large portion of his force in order for the greater whole to escape. And again the smaller diversionary force left behind slipped through his fingers, leaving him with only a scant trail of where to track this Alaric.

But along the way the diversionary Alliance force had continued to attack his forces on small scale raids and skirmishes, greatly slowing him down. And thus was why it had taken him so long to finally reach the Highborne aggressor once again.

He looked upon the battlefield, his forces, nearly twenty thousand Sentinels, backed up with druids, and such made up his primary attack group. A smaller force had been sent to flank the Alliance, but his main group would make a head on assault on the Undead, and then turn swiftly to meet the Alliance head on where they would be sandwiched between the flanking force and his own main group.

And so he let loose the dogs of war with a mighty blow of the Horn of Cenarius, the ancient wood pipe bellowing through the battlefield like it had back on Lordaeorn. Though this time he would not attack both enemies at once, no. This time he would use better tactics, and destroy one enemy before and pounce on the last one before they could react; and so the Army of the Night was on the move again, this time, aiming for total victory.

Now a third force had been added to the battle, once again tipping the scales. As Barak Demonlasher looked on, praying on the Mother Moon of Elune to keep safe her followers, the three armies clashed on the frozen plains of Northrend…

(Sorry it took me so long to get that chapter up guys, I've been doing a lot of school work lately, with projects and such. Well, keep reading as the story reaches its climax in the next chapter!)


	24. Chapter 22: High Tide

Chapter 22: High Tide

Center of the Battlefield 

The battle hung in the balance…from the east lay the vast innumerable forces of the Undead Scourge. To the west were set the army of the Grand Alliance, and to the south a smaller group of Night Elven sentinels.

Alaric knew this, but at the moment could do nothing. For hours he had been in his self induced half-trance in order to preserve energy while still fighting off the powers of the Litch King.

The magical storm above was where he and the Litch King's powers had met in a furious magical battle. In the clouds above great gushes of energy and forks of lightning danced about in a fanciful fashion before clashing and exploding in impossible blasts of energy. When they met, the clouds parted, giving all a full view of the battle, if only for the briefest moment.

The sensation…the power that roiled though him through these Waters was unlike anything ever experienced in this world; in all his many years.

Yet somehow every move he jabbed the opposing force seemed to be able to counter and turn on him. He could sense that Tanis and Dethal were near breaking point, as all their energy had been channeled into him. Soon, they would be on the verge of consuming the last of their life energies, which Alaric did not want to happen, for his friendship to the two and his need of their powers later.

So much had transpired, and so close they were to ultimate victory; they could not give in now. The army was under the command of Jonathan Marcus of Stormwind, a capable commander, yet more accustomed to defending cities than leading armies though an open field of battle.

Against the vast wall of power that was aligned against him, Alaric finally saw a gap; an opening in which he could attack and for a while cast a spell of silence to slow the Litch King's progress and at least for a little while keep him from casting spells on such a large scale. He knew this was the only chance he would ever get, for a being as powerful as Ner'zhul never made the same mistake twice, and even rarer never made a mistake at all.

And Alaric took the chance, throwing all he had into the gap in his opponent's impossibly thick mental armor. His attack penetrated the wall, and he unleashed the Spells of Silence upon his enemy, which for a while resisted, but fell prey to the ultimate powers of the Waters of Eternity.

And in a snap Alaric awoke. Behind him Dethal and Tanis also suddenly shot their eyes open, and then slooped over off their mounts in pure exhaustion. Alaric too was tired, but not so much as the ones whom had been feeding him energy for hours. Immediately the two clerics whom had stayed by Tanis' side through the whole ordeal began their healing process. Alaric nodded, and swiftly turned away, tired as he was, but still invigorated with the powers of the Waters.

Suddenly, a dragonhawk squawked and beated its wings down toward him from above. The dragonhawk's mounted master was none other than the resistance fighter that he had met up with before the army had attacked the ruins of Lordaeron's former capital.

"My lord, the Undead are being pushed back! Our forces are strangulating the center of their line as we advance!" the courier quickly said, giving an assessment of the situation "Yet the blasted black Elves are digging into the Undead flank, and seem to be on a collision course with our tired and drained men. General Jonathan wishes for what orders to proceed on next"

"Tell him to engage the Undead with prejudice, but leave the Night Elves to me" Alaric replied, seeing the vast plethora of combat in front of him. The great battle was raging over such a vast amount of land that the Alliance and Kaldorei armies were having trouble coordinating. The Undead of course, were under a unified single command, so they still retained a great amount of coordination, even if they were getting crushed between the two opposing forces.

Alaric then eyed the force of Night Elves with suspicion at first, then recognition. This was the same force that had so masterfully assaulted his flank in Lordaeron, and which he had fought at the peak of Mount Hyjal.

"They are still of use to me…" Alaric said, slowly pondering "Our numbers thin daily and there are no reinforcements…if we can ally ourselves, even if temporarily with this cursed Moon Stalkers than we could possibly make it to Icecrown with enough of an effective force to lay siege to it. And also they would prove invaluable with their strange nature magics if I combined them with the great eternal power of the Waters of Eternity…if they could listen to what I have to offer them…" He quickly plucked a Scroll of Teleportation from his waist-belt, and began reading its contents, reaching out to the Light and a one of the seven Vials of Illidan which hung also around his belt. The remaining three he had left in the keeping of Tanis and Dethal.

After Eolas's grand betrayal, Alaric had found it difficult to trust others, even those of his own kin. And so he had kept this single vial, the largest of them all, close to him, just in case.

And so Alaric formulated his plans to unite two groups which had been separated for 9,000 years; if only until the end of this madness…

Night Elven Frontal Command

Barak Demonlasher looked on as his deployed forces continued their dig into the Undead's forces. Losses were grievous, and the few druids they had brought along were physically and mentally exhausted already.

He had already underestimated the strength of the Scourge's forces. They had not been so easy to break as they had been on the mainland of that cursed dead continent that the human prisoners so aptly named "Lordaeron".

If the battle continued much longer, the very position he was standing on would become untenable and the fight against the Alliance would never prevail, weakened as they were.

Yet…his command was simple. Seek out the one whom defiled the World Tree's ruins, and retrieve the Vials that had been so stolen; and also to kill those who got in the way.

The Cenaurian Circle had told him, and stressed to him, upon the point of the High Elven race. Of their true origins and beliefs. All Night Elves knew that the sad schism between their people had driven the Highborne of Azshara across the sea. From there, details grew hazy, but thousands of years later they once again melded into place.

It seemed that once the Highborne, then calling themselves High Elves, had used the magic of their greatest sorcerers to create the magical cauldron of intense energies that became known as the Sunwell. By then, the so called High Elves had abandoned the guiding path of Elune for the travesty of what the humans called the Holy Light.

Once the Scourge destroyed their homeland and the Sunwell, which had fed the High Elves their intensely needed magics, most of those surviving High Elves renamed themselves Blood Elves, in some kind of homage to their fallen countrymen. The Blood Elves had lived in a constant state of depravation of magic; it seemed that their greatest power was also their greatest enemy. They lived to avenge their people and fallen nation, yet constantly suffering; the great maw that used to be filled with the Sunwell's most pleasing energies opened wide in their bodies.

And so it seemed that those few Blood Elves themselves would perish if not the last direct descendant of the High Elven King, Prince Kael'Thas, had led most of his people through a mysterious portal, possibly in chase of new magical powers.

Those that remained, whom were unable to follow Kael'thas had languished without the powers of the Sunwell. With their one true leader gone, they began to break apart, especially since the Alliance had outsted them from their ranks. Yet, a new generation of High Elven lords it seemed was able to gather up the remnants of the Blood Elf people.

This, Alaric'Quel, of a noble House with royal blood flowing through his veins, and Dethal Lightflame and Eolas Daggerthorn, also nobles of whom had been in attendance with the Silvermoon Convocation had managed the regather the last of their kind and whipped it up into an elite, albeit small, fighting force.

Though not officially of the Alliance, they somehow were able to procure a large number of human, and dwarven troops, formerly of the Alliance, into the force that had raged across Ashenvale and southern Kalimdor those months before.

The day had passed, and dusk was beginning to set in. The fighting would slow for the night as the Alliance would pull its ranks back for a rest. But what of his men? Night was when they were strongest. Yet not strong enough under their current condition.

There were few options left to him now. Push the attack, and somehow crack the Alliance's frontlines, or pull back, rest and regroup, and manage to attack again at a later time.

Yet…even though he understood the dire fact that this Highborne was carrying with him the very powers that had first brought the Legion to Azeroth, he knew that this certain one, even though he personally hated him for his humiliating defeat on Hyjal, was somehow doing something right. He had managed to shield the powers from the Legion, and seemed to be using his burden responsibly.

"Damnation" Barak muttered, his mind muddled, not getting his sleep in days.

From directly in front of him, the ground began to tremor slightly, and luminesant, pure white runes began to spiral in a circle. Before his very eyes, the Highborne that had caused the whole debacle appeared! The guards around him immediately turned their weapons on the interloper, whom in turn threw a hand into the air calling upon the energies of arcane magic to freeze the guards in their place and seal their mouths.

Instinctively Barak's tanned violet hand swept directly to his scythe-blade which pointed directly at the Insurrectionist's red plated chest piece. But the Highborne held up his hand in a gesture of peace, and slowly approached.

"Why do you enter my camp if not for battle?" Barak stuttered, choking on his unhidden anger.

"Why, if not for war than for peace? You know today you led this force here, and only now has it become apparent that your foolish deployments will destroy you and your men. It seems that I too am in quite the same paradox. For two days we have been fighting quite the force of Undead, but until now they had tricked us with a smaller force of theirs. Now it seems that unless we coordinate together that both our forces will be destroyed. For the sake of not just this battle, but for that of the world I beg of you to consider an alliance, if only temporary!" Alaric said, now his voice peaking in desperation.

Barak could feel the disgusting arcane energy that the traitorous Highborne so wielded. Feeling its vile presence he nearly lashed out at this Alaric, but his higher senses held him back.

He knew what this one was saying was true. If the Undead, perhaps the greatest threat to the world other than the Highborne himself, were to defeat his force than there would be nothing to stop this madman.

"You wield the powers of Nordrassil! You stole the energy of the Well of Eternity, the loathsome scion that led to all the wars these past ten thousand years! You must be stopped!" Barak barked back.

"I…never intended to do evil with these Waters. Though I knew that the Night Elves would ever allow me to procure even a single Vial for my plans. What I did had to be done to save this world from the Undead and give Quel'thalas it's rebirth" the Insurrectionist then said, voice dipping in sadness. He quickly recounted his story and plans to Barak.

Barak's muscles twitched as he listened, doubt beginning to gnaw at his beliefs of the Highborne's utter evil. He had misjudged the Highborne, but even so, he was still a grave threat, one to be destroyed as soon as possible. He still felt a burning desire to avenge his honor, but that had no place on a battlefield such as this one. No matter how light hearted this Alaric's intentions were, the power he held in his hands could as quickly corrupt him or call back the Burning Legion.

Slowly Barak Demonlasher nodded, his own ends forming in his mind. He could ally with the Insurrectionist for now, but when the time came, he had to be destroyed. And then his vengeance would come as well, even though that had taken a second place to the heat of the moment.

"An enemy of mine enemy is a friend; for now Alaric'Quel, we shall ally, but know that I do not support this at all. The very notion of it makes me feel like killing myself! This shall not last!"

The red-garbed Blood Elf also nodded, the blue glow in his eyes tinting.

On the battlefield

Genn Blackswift cut down through the air with his broadsword which cracked upon the skull of a skeletal minion. Tears flowed down his face as he did so, knowing that his regiment had been shattered beyond all repair. Nearly all his men were gone, dead forever or turned into mindless zombies.

His force had been cut off from the rest of the army, and had slowly been encircled. Now, only he, the dwarf Belgarlan, and a dozen others fought in a desperate back-to-back circle.

Images of his past flew by his eyes. His childhood in Stromgarde, watching the Horde pillage and destroy the peaceful hamlets of the fatherland. His teenage years as he worked his apprenticeship in a smithy shop on the outskirts of Tyr's Hand. To the utter exhilaration he felt when getting his first promotion in the army against a marauding group of orcs.

But it came and went to quickly, only to be replaced with the ghastly faces of those that the Litch King called his servants.

"A good day to die!" Belgarlan shouted out as he threw a stormhammer, his last one, at a nerubian whom had appeared out of one of the subterranean tunnels. The dwarf seemed to enjoy the thought of a death in battle, his grudges now released, and ancestors welcoming him to them.

Genn was amazed at the dwarf's tenacity to still fight though. He could see the shaft of a pike sticking out from the stocky being's shoulder, and several deep cuts on the bearded, grim encrusted face.

As the dwarf said, it was the end today. He accepted reality, and brought his sword up once again, throwing his iron shield to the side. Twirling, he swiftly sliced the skulls off of two more ghouls before hearing a strange noise.

It was the same noise that he had heard before the damnable dark elf charge at the flank of his line back when they had engaged the army of Kel'thuzad in the Tirisfal Glades.

Damnation! He knew it! Should have known it! Those blasted dark elves were still following them, hunting them down!

Confusion spread across the frontlines of the Scourge as they witnessed the joining of the Night Elven and Alliance forces. In a vital push, the Sentinel Army and the Alliance Forces had thrown back the armies of the Scourge, weakened by the Spell of Silence put on their master.

Genn saw from behind a wall of northern undead beasts a quick movement. The same as he had seen in Ashenvale forest before the dark elf attack there. Suddenly, a cacophony of roars and battle cries raised in the air as the Night Elf army began to rush upon the forces that had so surrounded his men and him.

He and his men raised their weapons, and prepared for the end, but then a single shout permeated the air.

"_Ish'nu dal dieb_! We come as allies in the hour of battle, not enemies!"

The creatures that called themselves Night Elves, whom he himself personally preferred dark Elves, began to rush around his men, but not into them, killing the undead beasts and joining their battle.

In seconds the rush was over and a wave of mysterious, beautiful, armored, panther mounted Night Elven women past by continuing the charge. Genn and his few men remaining stood atop the corpses of the undead, watching the spectacle of the Night Elven force battling back the plague-ridden Undead.

With excitement and new life rising up in him, Genn rushed toward the wall of undead that was not beginning to fall back.

Scourge Frontlines 

Eolas stood in silence as he witnessed the attack on his flank. It was so damned familiar. Those blasted Night Elves again with their surprise attacks. It mattered not though. Behind him lay an unending force of undead servants willing to obey his commands.

"You may have the upper hand for the moment Alaric…but against the might that is the Litch King you cannot resist!" he shouted out.

He had been particularly disturbed by the silence of the Litch King for the past few hours, but had resolved that the great Lord had his mind elsewhere. For now the battle was over it seemed. Eolas used his incredible phycic powers so generously given to him by the Litch King to back his forces down, to slowly regroup them.

After a day or two they would be ready to fight again. Confident, Eolas backed away from the battle.

Central Northrend

It had been two days since the Night Elven and Alliance forces joined together. Their combined might threw back the undead for a while, but they had regrouped and presented themselves as a brick wall once again.

The first few days of fighting had taken a terrifying toll on the Alliance army, over a quarter of its men wounded, dead, or missing. Those that were missing were automatically presumed to be reanimated as ghouls by necromancers, sad as the thought was, but true in proven history.

The actual number was more than ten thousand gone from the ranks. For Barak's forces, the actual number of casualties had been less, but in percentage it had been nearly the same. Five thousand in twenty of their number were gone.

And so their alliance, tenuous at best, continued onward, and once again prepared for battle anew against their enemy whom had regrouped.

Alliance Base Camp

Alaric had not foreseen into the future enough. The toll on Dethal and Tanin had been near death, their strength still not recovered. Both men lay near death for the first day in the field hospital, and only now were barely able to speak.

Without at least those two powerful spell casters, the only he could spare at the moment, to back him up, trying to delve into the powers of the Waters even with the Book of Medivh would prove fatal as the vast energy would overwhelm his psyche and throw him into the already overcrowded field hospitals. So many that had not succumbed to the wounds of battle had already complained of frostbite and malnutrition, some things of which the Clerics and priests of the Light could fix. But there were also those Blood Elves that followed him that had become obsessed with demonic magics, having had a taste for their power. Even though he had shown him the light of the Waters of Eternity, many in a growing sect still bided with the darker magics of the Great Beyond; something he intended to stop once this war was over.

And so with great reluctance to the parting of the so nourishing powers of the Waters, he once again encased them in their magically enchanted chest.

He had deployed his forces in accordance and coordination with the Night Elf Barak Demonlasher, and hoped that this push would be enough to get them to Icecrown Glacier, which drew ever closer. Just beyond this final plain lay the most intricate fortifications in Northrend; the great Fortress of Icecrown would try to break this army, but it would only be broken by this most glorious of forces.

Already he could see the shorebirds of Northrend venturing inland, many times as a premonition to the insidious attacks by the fearsome gargoyles.

Just a mile and a half from their current position lay the forces of the Undead Scourge. Alaric knew that this would be the hardest fight he had ever seen. The innumerable forces of the Scourge had been gathered up as far as southern Lordaeron to protect their master.

His thoughts shifted to a new line of thought as he fingered the one Vial he had decided to keep next to him and watched his forces begin their march forward. Soon they would meet the Scourge's lines, and once again hell would break loose.

The Spell of Silence Alaric had just barely managed to put on the Litch King had been able to weaken his magical output enough to stop him from using the Waters, but that was only when Alaric had been attuned to several Vials at once.

His entire Mage corps slowly trotted forward on their white stallions, his intent to use them to create havoc among the undead long enough to force another breakthrough. There were about twenty three mages left from the battle yesterday. They and their few hundred troops had formed the greatest bulk of resistance during the week's battles. Alaric sincerely hoped that twenty three mages would be enough to complete the strategy on which he had based himself using the power of the Waters.

They had traversed many miles already, the men tired from the long marches and the battles. But they were nearly within sight of their target. Just beyond the horizon lay Icecrown Glacier, its deadly frozen waters home to the Lord of the Undead.

To the south lay the vast field of ice and snow, under which countless of the undead spiders called 'nerubians' poured out of the vast subterranean colonies that they had managed somehow to dig out under Northrend. At their western flank, the frontlines, a seemingly endless coherent army of the Scourge. To reach Icecrown their far smaller force would have to cut a bloody swath through the Scourge's army and lay siege to the dangerous, ever changing glacier.

The tenuous pact with Barak's Night Elves still held, though it grew more tenuous with each passing moment. Alaric knew that in a few days the pact they had made would begin to fall apart due to their own internal doings. It was hard to coordinate or understand with the Night Elves, seeing as their different language, culture, and even way of thinking. Due to these things and the political tensions, it was clear things would evaporate within the next two week or so. And thus they had to break through the lines of the Scourge as soon as possible. Once again, time was their enemy.

And so they would push on. From the front Alaric began to hear the first signs of battle. Riding up past the field hospitals, the catapult and ballistae crews, and men waiting in reserve, Alaric made his way to the back of the battle line which were beginning to form.

The skirmishers had already begun their fighting out front of the battle, their thin line brandishing javelins and bows, getting a feel for the line of the Scourge. It seemed that the undead had placed its main infantry, ghoul grunts, and skeleton warriors, the usual riffraff of undead humans, elves, nerubians, and extra-dimensional entities such as the occasional summoned Infernal. On the flanks where the mountains cut the Scourge into pieces were placed the bulky abominations, their tanking units made of the corpses of dozens of corpses and also undead Ogres, something which had not been seen on the battlefields of Lordaeron, to blunt cavalry attacks on the flank. Scattered about the lines were necromancers, the damned men who had sold their souls to the Litch King in promise of eternal paradise in death, prepared to lift the dead from their fallen positions and bring them into the Litch King's most heathen domination.

A pale faced human stood next to him, awaiting the order for the artillery barrage. Once again it had begun to snow, a premonition of the ice power of the Litches gathering for their assault.

But since the two powers capable of harnessing the powers of the Waters down for the count, Alaric had brought up his Mage Corps, a remnant of one of the defense forces of Dalaran, to use their superior magical skills to wreak havoc within the armies intended path. They were also invaluable in their transporting of supplies from the navy's anchorage in Daggerfall Bay. It was they who would be needed if the army was to suffer all out defeat and had to retreat off the battlefield. They had enough power, along with the ambient magic of the land, to transport large segments of the army back to Daggerfall.

"Ah, the O Magnus, the _Blood Mage_ greets us at last…" sneered Karl Wolfsteine, the old sod of a wizard. Yet one of the most powerful Alaric had. "The mages and I have created an act of attack across an axis we think might bring the most powerful ley of energies against the strongest columns of the enemy" he ended, seemingly proud of his work.

Alaric studied the parchment Wolfsteine handed him briefly, and shook his head. "The alignment of your magics is off. Do you remember nothing of your school of wizardry?" Alaric inquired.

The old wizard and several of his accomplices scrunched up their faces in anger, and with clenching hands were able to keep from biting back in retaliation for the verbal assault.

"What would you propose we do, _oh great one?_" Wolfsteine asked in sarcastic tone.

"Time is of the essence. The troops advance soon. I want an all out push with your energies against this area here" he said, pointing to the dark smudges on the parchment indicating the large force of necromancers at the end of their lines. "And-use the correct axis this time, please?" Alaric said, having his own fun at snipping at the old crotchety wizard.

Once they had cleared the first lines of the enemy the army would move _en echelon, _the flanks bending backwards slightly to form a semi-triangle so that they could move past the enemy without having to worry about being flanked every second of the march.

He looked down to the human boy, who suddenly snapped to attention. "Tell them it is time. They may fire when ready" he announced, his voice cutting through what seemed the misery of this damnable land. The lad ran off to deliver his message. Around the bend of a small hill the officer in charge of the first batteries nodded to himself, and let loose the first volley.

And so the final battle on Northrend began. All together two hundred catapults and ballistae fired off their deadly cargo. They were joined by the dozen steam tanks and mortar teams manned by the ingenious dwarves to create the greatest barrage of death that had been seen since the Third Great War.

The archers then advanced in their long lines, raised bows together, and fired their thousands of projectiles into the air, darkening the already eternally-blotted Northrend sky.

Alaric quickly rode up to the Mage Corps, its soldiers shifting uncomfortably in the deepening snow. In the time he had led troops this past year, in the time he had taken it upon himself to gather the bastions of might left in the world and remake the Alliance, in all this time he had led troops such as these; battered, worn, tired, damaged equipment, dirty, unshaven and more.

There had never been any troops, except perhaps those whom had traveled those many hundreds of miles to the battlefield from Stormwind, that were clean, spit-and-shine, and polished. He had never truly commanded 'fresh' troops; nearly always veterans of some sort or another. These were men he knew he could count on; they were the apex of the Alliance's fighting machine.

The Alliance, eh?; a group of nations and peoples thrown together during their darkest hours to form a military coalition against an enemy of superior odds. Now that sounded much akin to what he saw before him today. And in that, he took heart, knowing that he, along with all those with him, would never allow this blighting dark to cover the world in ash and sorrow as it had their nations. Now was the time to fight, and this was their high tide.

It took five minutes for the mages to be prepared and in their utmost readiness for battle. With their conjuring staffs, the mages, with specialization in all different kinds of fields of magic, began their spells.

Great sheets and torrents of ice and freezing rain, giant hailstones, and more began to fall from the sky. The Blood Elf mages, more adept with the fiery side of magic, brought forth elemental fire and controlled balls of pure flame.

"My friend…we have need of your pristine powers once again" Alaric called out to the ground, feeling the world's flame arising to help him in this endeavor. Near the frontline of the Scourge cracks and tremors began to appear in and on the ground. Flames licked out of the fissures, and suddenly a massive pillar of fire burst out to unveil a fire elemental phoenix.

"Go my friend, destroy our enemies!" Alaric bid the phoenix, the magical creature always there when he needed it; and so the phoenix took to air as well, flying down on the Scourge's lines embellishing them with a seemingly draconic fire.

In seconds the pristine order of the Scourge's lines was shattered. Left and right they fell, one suddenly polymorphed into a sheep, another instantly incinerated from within. Already the sky filled with Bludstone's gryphon warriors, now perhaps more adept at fighting the frost wyrms of the Scourge than the red and black Dragons of the Second War.

The magical onslaught, amazing artillery and archery barrages seemed to open a gap for the Alliance troops, just as Alaric had planned.

He held up his mysterious, unnamed rune blade in a fashion parallel to the horizon. In a rasping voice, he shouted out "MEN OF THE ALLIANCE! NOW IS THE HOUR! FIGHT! FIGHT! FOR COUNTRY! FOR HONOR! FOR YOUR WIVES, CHILDREN, FAMILIES! FIGHT!"

The cries resonated across the empty fields and desolates of Northrend, shaking the earth as they began their advance.

Icereaper Encampment

Even Eolas Deathweaver had a feeling of dread as he heard, and felt the vibrations of the advancing columns of Alliance soldiers. Their chant filled the air with the intensity of something he had not felt in a long time.

Nevertheless, his glorious Lord urged him onward, feeding him more and more of his nutritious magics. The Litches had assembled, prepared to unleash their storm of ice powers upon the Alliance.

Scattered about the lines were various Death Knights commanding the troops, riding back and forth awaiting the Alliance attack.

Though to Eolas, the actual attack did not seem to bother him that much. It was the fact that to the south a large force of Night Elves, the same ones that had charged him earlier on that week, were marauding around, and strangely enough NOT attacking his former friend's army. Perhaps in some strange turn of events they had ended up allied to one another.

From behind, the great roaring noise filled the skies. Rising from just beyond his sight a great armada of frost wyrms and gargoyles flapped into the sky. The air had become a mangled, bloody, clash of two titans as the Alliances dragonhawks and gryphon riders met head on with the massive wyrms and nimble gargoyles who disappeared and then reappeared in the black clouds above.

Then came the unbelievable assault of magic and artillery that utterly crushed his frontlines. In seconds thousands of his best warriors, many whom had been magically enchanted to fight harder, were blasted into oblivion by the intense attack on them.

He sensed that in this time the Night Elven force also began attacking several miles southward in an attempt to cut off parts of the Scourge from the rest of the main body.

Eolas decided to let those in command in those areas to handle their own problems. For now, he directed the movement of a legion, fully 30,000 warriors into the gap.

The Alliance's frontal elements began to advance, soon to meet his own. A Litch, one of a considerably lower status, that held the menial task of commanding troops on the battlefield, tromped up to him to give his report. These Lesser Litches, also known as Lych Draugers, or simply "Reavers" as they were more commonly known by the Death Knight caste were a laughable joke. Unwillingly forced back to life, these former generals and mages were once great practitioners of their art, whether it be war or magic. The Litch King had pressed them into his command, and allowed them to retain some sense of individuality and memory so that they might think 'creatively' on the battlefields yet had twisted and wrenched their minds enough so that they would always think of him as their first priority.

"Lord, the Warrior Legion is proceeding forward to meet the Alliance. Give me a contingent of abominations and I can break them for good and send them running!" the rotting Reaver said vehemently, his twisted and clouded memory not truly remembering his heritage in the Alliance.

"You shall get what I give you Reaver. To argue with me is the argue with the will of the Litch King" Eolas replied coolly.

"You are not so much as his chosen yet young Death Knight! Give me even _thirty _abominations and I will make sure that Alliance line never gets past where it is now!" the Reaver-Captain nearly screamed in protest.

"Get back in your line. I believe the Litch King granted you too much freedom of thought foolish little Reaver?" Eolas said with annoyance hopping into his voice.

"And if I refuse?" In less than an instant the Reaver's body fell in half, its phylactery (the magical receptacle that holds a Litch's spirit or essence) falling out of its rotting body only to be crushed under Eolas's heavy boot.

"Fool…" he muttered, and personally took control of the insolent Drow's troops.

"To battle!" he cried out, raising Defiler high over his own head.

The legion of minions that had been brought up began its charge, head on into the missile and magical attack.

The first lines were decimated in seconds, but the sheer will to force the Litch King and a converging force of necromancers kept at least part of the force aloft whilst the main Alliance infantry columns closed in on the position. As the enemy's troops made their way closer and closer, within a scant few hundred yards now, the magical and artillery barrage ceased or pushed farther or away from the main axis of attack.

The blasted phoenix was still a problem though, raging up and down his lines incinerating many of his troops beyond use. Telepathically Eolas called in reinforcements.

From the ariel battle above three frost wyrms broke their attack and veered downwards toward the raging phoenix. In a flurry, and somewhat a beautiful air ballet, the four beasts of either frost or fire twirled around each other, shooting jets of their specific element.

The phoenix, noticing it had the wyrms on its tail dove downwards and swept its way into a 360 degree circle, quickly coming up behind his opponents. With a jet of flame one of the wyrm's wings quickly incinerated, the ashy remnants of it falling behind it in a large smoke cloud. That wyrm quickly crashed, but as it did the other wyrms turned to face their enemy. In a plethora of fire and ice the three remaining air combatants seemed to eliminate themselves, their remains falling to the frozen ground.

And so over a small patch of ice that was the first signs of the Icecrown Glacier, the two armies met again, for the last time. Thousands of warriors all hacking and slashing, crying oaths and curses, throwing daggers or staves, the chaos of a battle engulfing them all.

Eolas watched the battle progress from his tall rock, situated near the middle of the army. For miles beyond and behind him the Scourge stretched, yet in many places it was broken by small mountains or terrain, or simply separated for strategic formations and purposes. In all the Scourge's forces in the area had been split into groups, Northern Army, Southern Army, South-Eastern Army, Center Army and the Icecrown Vanguard each commanded by the Lord Death Knights under the near-direct control of the Litch King.

He had been given command of the center of the line, the very heart of the battle. Under his command were over sixty thousand warriors, all thirsting for blood and battle. Noticing that on his flanks a large mass of cavalry were preparing to flank him, he ordered a group of his reserve abominations into line to blunt the attack.

And in seconds the attack was over. The cavalry charge had been slaughtered, leaving behind dozens of their own wounded and dead. In turn, Eolas ordered out a group of felsteed mounted raiders as his own feint cavalry attack.

His felsteed's, commanded by a underling Reaver, engaged heavy resistance against the Alliance's front and left. A Reaver came up to him to report from the front "My Lord, the forces you wished have been allocated and prepared. Our surprise attack is ready…" the Reaver ended with a smile.

Behind the frontlines Eolas had accumulated two hundred abominations, an array of meat wagons, thousands of ghouls, and more.

"Order them in" he said quietly, returning the sadistic smile. Soon he would feel his old friend's throat in his hand, weeping for mercy.

Along the front thousands of his main warriors were fighting. Slowly, he brought more and more force on their flanks, which now bent _en echelon. _The extra pressure on the flanks would allow him to push harder with his allocated force onto their front line.

Smiling once again at the thought of personally strangling the life out of his former comrades, he set once again to battle.

Mage Corps Staging Area

Alaric surveyed the attack. Across his flanks the undead were pressuring him, almost begging him to send his reserves over there. But oh no, he had other plans for them.

Across the entire front he would push with the reserves into the main line of the Scourge and attempt to force them back, or even turn the lines. He himself would lead the charge atop his mount followed by the surviving cavalry from the devastating flanking assault.

In less than fifteen minutes, or what seemed like an eternity, the forces were ready to go. He quickly departed from the Mage Corps, which had its eye set on another portion of the enemy's forces, their magical onslaught serving the Alliance well.

Alaric quickly mounted up and watched as the lines parted for their attack. Along the line he heard the call to forward march, and double time, and soon enough the attack was underway.

They quickly pushed their way into the main battle, the chaos ensuing his attack, dissolving the neat squares of men into a mob of soldiers rushing forward. Nearly in the instant he entered the battle a pike struck through the neck and spine of his mount, throwing him a few feet. He quickly cast a sheet of round flame runes around him, which exploded any time an undead crossed its path.

Recovering quickly he thrust himself back into battle, swinging his blade against his enemy's rotting exteriors.

Though, he felt the profound existence of something he once knew somewhere around the battle, as if the essence of an old acquaintance had visited him in the form of a neatherghost.

As his men and he pushed inwards on the Scourge's line it became even more chaotic, dust, snow, and a bloody mist rising into the air.

Suddenly, he realized: Eolas…the damnable traitor that very nearly destroyed the entire plan he had formulated for years.

Anger rising, a fiery cloud enveloped Alaric, though its elemental nature not harming him, but only those around. Great green flames seared out of his eyes as he realized his former comrade was on the field, _commanding the_ _enemy's forces!_

How far could his friend's travesty go? How deep were the chasms of his betrayal? Alaric resolved in his anger to end his former friend's evil deeds. Grasping the pike of a hapless undead minion that he had slashed to pieces with this rune blade, Alaric began running with his victorious men who seemed to be pushing back the Scourge.

Rage consumed Alaric. He opened his mouth the an endless curse, screaming his lungs dry of air. He rushed up the hill where he sensed the creatures disgusting feel, surrounded by a pack of his men. Many of them were cut down as they raced with him. To the left he saw a force the cavalry rush inwards to meet a solid line of Scourge troops, comleted with many abominations.

Closer…closer…soon he would end the circle of betrayal.

Scourge Center Army Base Command

Eolas looked on in terror as the huge force of the Alliance smashing into his lines, its magic wielders eliminating much of the force he had intended to eliminate the Alliance's center. On the field he could sense the old feeling of his former brother in arms Alaric'Quel, and was he in a rage; blood-lusted beyond thinking it seemed even.

With his telepathic powers he began to try and allocate more and more troops to his position yet they were too slow. The Alliance attack was heading straight up to his position!

He could already see the remnants of his center line floating toward him aimlessly lost as he and the other Reavers had lost their grip on them in the panic. Gathering his wits, he mushed his steed onward into the fray of the battle to see if his great presence could fix the wrongs.

Center of the battle

Left and right Alaric impaled the filthy undead creatures along the shaft of the iron pike he heaved in his arms. Behind him flew his magically weaved onyx black cape, torn in many places.

But his only goal now was the end the Betrayer's life. He could feel the presence of his old friend closing in on him quickly as the blur of action around him continued.

Suddenly, between enemies he saw his old friend, or what looked like him at least. Adorned in strange, black, plate armor of the Death Knights league, and carrying a large sword completed with glowing green runes on its blade, the Elf that once was Eolas was no more. His face was completely pale, like a the snow on the ground, paler even than that of the customary elven features. His long ears seemed to droop, one clipped off at the end perhaps to show his homage to his new lord, and hair so, so white. The eyes were what truly caught Alaric's sight. They were seemingly no longer there. The whites of his eyes had turned black as the magic he now wielded, and were filled with the emotions of darkness.

Alaric once again filled his lungs with air, and screamed out an eternal curse. The Death Knight caught sight of his target as well, and began his skeletal steed's charge, laying his sword down in a slashing fashion. He fired two bolts of green energy, seemingly led by a green energy ball in the shape of a skull. One at a helpless footman in front of him, which quickly ate the man's life energies away and tearing at his body leaving a gory pile of flesh and metal plating; the other at Alaric himself.

Alaric threw up his cape to protect himself, and felt the impact of the death bolt as it was absorbed by his specially crafted cape. Still charging, he lay the spear up, and prepared his final assault.

And so it was, comrade against comrade, Elf against Elf, the end of a friendship that had lasted as long as each could remember. With a scream, Alaric jabbed the spear into Eolas's black, corrupted heart. With a sudden gasp of air and the punch in his chest, Eolas was knocked off the demonic horse and thrown into the corpse of a dead abomination.

But Alaric, filled his blood lust, continued to push on, until nearly the entire shaft of the pike was in the abominations plague-filled corpse.

And so Alaric and Eolas stood less than a foot from each other. Alaric looked into the orbs of blackness that had become his friend's eyes, sadly shook his head and thrust the shaft farther, until his hands now touched Eolas's chest plates.

Eolas stood silent, mouthing words, some of hate, some pain, some sorrow, some perhaps even regrets. Slowly, his black eyes fell downward, and in one sudden final move threw his dark blade against Alaric, grazing the side of his face before his dying strength faltered and ended.

Alaric watched reverently as the one he once called his best friend fell away, into the Great Beyond. Even though all the crime his friend had committed, let loose a small prayer, sorrow filling him.

He broke his sadness by looking around, finally realizing the world around him. It seemed that his men had broken the Scourge's line here in the center. He still didn't know how Barak's army was holding out, but he was counting on the crafty Night Elf to hold the back of the army open so they could escape if it came to that and if the mages from the Mage Corps were destroyed or too exhausted.

Behind he noticed a grand force of cavalry approaching through the fog and snow. Alaric turned to see the forces of the army advancing facing nearly no fight along the front for several miles, but the flanks were heavily assailed. All too soon however another Death Knight would come to command the forces here. A still innumerable force grew out there, and next time he could not attempt another frontal attack as he had here.

It had cost him dearly he saw, looking on the swath they had cut through the Scourge's line. Hundreds, if not thousands of his warriors lay dead or wounded on the field.

The grand line of cavalry approached now, and Alaric spotted General Marcus Jonathan in his embroidered and fanciful armor, yet covered in a thin layer of battle grime.

"Lord General! Our flanks hold now, and the front has secured been secured, but the undead are reforming and will hit the front in minutes. We must reform out lines!" the graying man spoke out.

"Alas, what you say is true. Our front, though victorious, is shattered and broken. If it is not reformed soon I fear the army will be split down the middle" he reported in response. "Let the word be spread!" he shouted out, and immediately the General's runners were off, shouting the orders.

It took a few minutes to reform the lines but it did so in an orderly fashion, the veteran men well disciplined and knowing their maneuver. The Scourge's front, just overrun in the very center was soon refilled and assailing the Alliance's front and flanks again. The toll continued to take the lives of men, and especially when the Litches unleashed a powerful storm of ice and lightning along the reserve and supply lines of the army.

Yet the army was nearly upon Icecrown Glacier. And here was when the final battle would end. In the distance a light blue permeated the clouds, the magic of Icecrown filling the air around it. Along these ice plains, narrow valleys, and deadly steppes the Scourge had created Icecrown Fortress as it was now called in Alaric's command center.

Three miles of barricades, traps (both runic and regular), and more dotted the landscape which was filled with the Scourge's warriors.

"We _must _push on! Our goal lies just a few miles away. Dethal and Tanin are nearly recovered, and-" the senior ranking Cleric in the group was interrupted by a lesser brigadier general.

"But we cannot afford these fanciful tactics. Give the order for a full out charge! Our supply line is getting thinner and thinner as we continue to move west. We must make it to Icecrown soon, or else the men will start freezing from lack of firewood and starving from lack of food. The War must end now!"

The scene was not pretty in his command tent. The various generals argued vehemently over what they believed to be the best course of action. "Gentlemen, it is true we only have a few days of rations left, and also true that this truce with the Night Elves will hold only a little longer due to our political agendas. I agree, the War must end as soon as possible, yet an all out charge would do no good to us" Alaric spoke up, the first time in several minutes.

And the arguments started again.

_Am I surrounded by children? _He thought out to himself.

It took a little while to finally agree on the best plan of attack. With the Scourge's forces letting up for an the past two hours on the intensity of their attacks the men had been able to get much needed food and sleep. But the hardest, and last, part of the journey was about to begin.

By that nightfall, they were able to secure a path through the Scourge's forces, and had arrived on Icecrown Glacier. The high tide indeed as Alaric had described it.

The army would proceed now, unhindered by the flanks as it seemed now that the assailing undead army around them had pulled back to combine its forces with the Icecrown home guard troops.

Yes, there would be blood in the next few hours. In nearly a day the army had marched twenty five miles more, reaching the interior of Icecrown Glacier. The spell of silence Alaric had summoned onto the Litch King while in his power induced trance had nearly worn off, just as Tanin and Dethal were nearly recovered. Soon the battle between the two magic titans would begin again.

That morning, the Scourge's army was spotted again, pulled into a tight circle around a deadened forest that held many plateaus around it. Behind the spectacle was the damnable sight of Icecrown Tower, the very home and heart of the undead. It was there they were made, and there where they could be unmade.

Though they had fought ferociously in these past weeks, the proud army of forty thousand had been reduced greatly in number. Nearly half of their rank was gone, transported back to the navy for better keeping and care.

And here was where the hammer would fall the hardest. Alaric did not imagine this army would get out at all 'intact'. As it saddened him, he knew this army would have to be a sacrifice for him, Eolas, and Tanin to get close enough to destroy Icecrown Citadel.

He could see it already. In a few hours the army would set out, the leading elements engaging the forest and plateaus. The death toll would be horrendous. The army would lose all semblance of order as it became a mad fight against the Scourge.

But what had to be done had to be done. By the end of this day, the Scourge would be undone…

(I know that when I spell Lich I spell it as Litch with a T in the middle. That is my own signature way of spelling the word. I've had to say this because I've been getting some complaints about that lately. Other than that, enjoy the chapter and review plz!)


	25. Chapter 23: The Hammer Falls

Chapter 23: The Hammer Falls

Outer Icecrown Fortress

Like nothing he had ever seen, the black mass spread before him. The Scourge; its forces greater than anything he had ever seen, including that of all its armies that had been seen. Now, its entire force had been put to the field. For leagues it stretched. Oh, how good today was to die!

The Duke Winfield raised his broad sword over his head, and in went his troops. Led by his meager cavalry force the final battle in Northrend began.

"For valor! For virtue! For Lordaeron! For your lands, your people!" he screamed out as the banners stretched gloriously under the sun. The golden L of Lordaeron, the Eye of the Violet Citadel, the Crimson Fist of Stromgarde, the Rune of Gilneas, Lion of Azeroth, the Anchor of Kul-Tiras, and even the Hawk of the Provisional Alterac Forces, and the respective colors of Ironforge, Aeire Peak, and Quel'thalas waved with their full colors under the dim skies, perched on lances and pikes of knights of whom had displayed the heads of their enemies.

With tactical mastery, the forces of the Alliance rushed into battle. Twenty five thousand men, elves, and dwarves, flew into the realm of war, with the zeal and strength of all those whom had fought before them.

The Duke lay his lance down as the front lines of the undead approached, and under the heavens he knew his name would forever be secured in the tomes of history for leading this last full charge. He placed his face-plate down, blinked once to moisturize his wind dried eyes, and braced his spear arm for the impact of his enemies.

"Yeeeahh!" he yelled out, voice commingling with that of thousands of others. And in the heat of battle, all was defined.

Company A, 45th Battalion

The fighting had spread out now, flattening out the lines of the advancing Alliance forces. Genn Blackswift had maneuvered the regiment into battle lines facing the Scourge's forces. He and his regiment were the very southernmost flank of the Army. Below them lay the smaller and less equipped forces of the Night Elves, of whom he and his men did not trust from their many battles with them.

Because of this distrust he help back Company C, with its thirty and eight men as a guard for his flank, or at least a sentinel for sudden betrayal.

The Dwarf, Belgarlan, and his fighters were perhaps some of the greatest warriors Genn had ever seen in his life. With ferocity and willingness to die they threw themselves into battle as the vanguard of the Battalion and regiment. The hearty dwarf also stocked quite a stash of ales in his 'powder kegs' as well, leading them to many drunken nights on this desolate wasteland.

But in the present, the undead had assailed and overrun the 2nd Regiment of the Battalion, every one of its soldiers dead. And thus his men had been pulled out of the reserve to fill the gap in the line.

Genn could see that in the fight that the army was beginning to come apart. As leaders were killed or wounded or separated from their units, individuals began to take over the strict chain of command of the Army. Slowly the semblance of order was melting away, yet Genn was struggling to keep intact what he could of his regiment, knowing that if he lost control there would be no taking it back.

"Captain, take your men to the right flank! The enemy's conjurers are attempting to breach out lines!" he yelled out to one of his captains.

On the right of his area of control he could see several enemy spellcasters throwing a heap of magical curses upon his troops, throwing them into confusion. The Captain and his men quickly dispatched the problem, but every time one was solved another was created.

From behind the fighting where the bodies littered the ground Genn noticed a courier making his way towards him.

"Commander of the Regiment! The Order is to advance! You are to push forward no matter your casualties, as orders directly from the Duke of the Corps himself!" he yelled out as he neared.

_Insanity! _Genn thought. Already many of his men were dead or wounded or afflicted to fighting. He could not simply give the orders to advance as if nothing were in front of him! Yet, he was to follow orders, as was the job of soldiers.

Just as he was about to acknowledge the message an arrow strung itself through the throat of the courier, who staggered and fell off his horse which went neighing madly out of the battle.

"All units forward!" he yelled out, hoping that this was all part of a greater scheme.

Forward 2nd Corps Headquarters

This was not a good day for General Marcus Jonathan. Every thing was against him this day; the weather, the terrain, numbers, and countless other things not to mention time as well. The first battle lines had deployed in normal fashion and engaged in normal fashion and that was where the similarities to the battles of the Second and Third Wars ended. After the 1st and 3rd Corps were committed to battle, his force was called upon to assault the northern portion of a large undead stronghold, defended by a vast army.

After a massive attack on the undead on the northern front by the Mage Corps via his request, he had cleared several of the entrenchments including the damned infernal ziggeraughts and a Necropolis, its bloated mass floating above the earth like some diseasing stigma would he had ordered the advance of his lead elements.

The result was a disaster. His forces were overrun by undead as they poured out of the canyon that ran beside his force, and he was barely able to stabilize the frontier by sacrificing two more regiments to escape the deathtrap. Now, at two thirds of his strength, he was ordered once again to advance, as all units had.

He looked on in horror at the battlefield, never experiencing anything like this before. It may not have been one of the massive battles from the Second War, or the slaughters of the Third War, but this was the most insane and intense battle he believed he could ever remember.

Magic flittered through the skies, as did dragonhawks, wyrms, gryphons, and gargoyals. On the ground the same went to magic. Conjured demons rampaged across the spread out battlefield and undead threw themselves at the walls he had made with his men.

This damned, mad fighting had taken the souls of his sons…his beautiful sons, Marcus Junior and Throtear, gone…yet, somehow he pulled himself together, out of the death of his sons in the Third War when they foolishly enlisted to aid in Lord Garithos's ill-fated counterattack against the Scouge and Burning Legion. He had to keep his Corps together…the idea suddenly sprung in his mind. As he witnessed the battle from his small elevated position he could see the command hierarchy beginning to unravel, the lines spreading out or bunching up, the undead pushing them everywhere.

It was here that the Army's momentum had stopped: clearly they could not pass farther than his. It seemed as though the undead had not truly fought until this time and day, its forces now pouring in from all directions.

Then, just then, Marcus noticed something strange. From over the hilltop on the adjacent side of the depression that served as Icecrown Glacier, a dark line appeared, yet another undead army.

"Damnit, is that Voldagan's Corps?" one of his commanders spoke, watching the spectacle along with him.

"Afraid so-nothing we can do for em'" he spoke, waving to another courier whom he had just given a message to for the second push forward.

In minutes it was upon the Third Corps, the main portion of the thrust towards the Citadel, and in minutes the men of the Third Corps had either been killed by the surprise attack from the rear, or were fleeing for their lives.

_That was a fifth of our fighting force…_he thought now noticing the Scourge's plan. All around, the Scourge's armies were closing in, pushing the Alliance forces and the Night Elf expedition together into a single clump, easy to kill.

_Perhaps today I shall see my sons in the Great Beyond…_, and with that thought on his mind, he mounted his large brown stallion, and rode to the front lines to lead his troops in their glorious, last charge.

Center of the Battle

The land was littered with palisades, trenches, and more death traps. From below the ground came the rumbling of nerubian tunnels. The skies filled with the aerial combatants, and the land became a great basin of shed blood, but still they pushed on.

"Sire, our forces are pushing through! We are at least half a mile into the enemies lines!" a runner boy quickly spoke up to him.

Winfield nodded, and quickly resumed the attack, reorienting his forces for a greater angle of destruction.

As waves washed upon a beach slowly eroding it, so did these men, eroding the enemies limestone wall of defense. To the south somewhere their new Night Elven allies would be attacking as well, helping create the final diversion that the Lord General needed.

Having his mount caught out from under him by an abomination, the Duke dropped to his armored legs, and swung his sword roundabout swiping three skeletal minions apart. Yet, from behind, a great Wight flung its ethereal sword at him, severing his leg's artery, circling around, and gashing at his chest, only then to fly off into the chaos.

With blood gushing from the un-mendable wounds, the Duke clutched his sword and lunged at the closest enemy, a necromancer clad in its customary orange robes. The fiend had been summoning the corpses of the Duke's former men to fight for him, something which he could not stand for.

With a mighty heave, and the last of his quickly disappearing energy, the Duke cleanly sliced the head off his opponent. The advance of his men grew noticeably greater as they were able to finish off the remaining warriors in their vicinity and push on.

"I have done…my duty…and won eternal-glory under…the Light" he whispered, suddenly on his back, his warm life-blood (quickly freezing in the cold) pooling beneath him.

A shadow came over his face, the face of a kindly elder elf priest.

"_A shubra na_, go, be at peace with the Light my son" he said.

And slowly, the Duke's life flashed before his eyes, as he slipped into the deeper, cottony, warmth of final death.

Forward Command Headquarters 

Alaric watched as the order in the army disintegrated. The sadness washed over him as he witnessed the so many thousands he had led for months now dying. Already rumors of Duke Winfield's death had been received, and that the entire 1st Corps had been dissolved, along with the 3rd's utter destruction. From the south the Night Elven force had retreated, their backs to the 1st and 4th Corps.

They were now a perfect target. In nearly a full circle they were assailed. He was told that General Jonathan's command post had been on this small plateau before he had left to lead his men, and for all Alaric knew, die.

"Aye, it is time" he muttered, glancing at the shimmering vials that partially stuck out from beneath his ebon black cape. Dethal and Tanin were well enough now to back him in the venture of using the Waters again, but the Litch King it seemed had broken out of his spell.

Behind the lines, the ballistae, dwarven cannon, and catapults fired without abandon, pummeling the Scourge's ever lasting lines. It seemed that the bulk of the Scourge was converging on the area now, tens of thousands pouring in from the surrounding areas now. In a matter of an hour and a half, perhaps two hours, the army would be overwhelmed; within three, annihilated.

"I must stop this madness…" Alaric thought to himself watching the battle. His plans had all broiled down to this, this final moment. These were the hours that would decide the fate of the world, whether the growing power that was the Litch King would spill out across Azeroth, or that he would be defeated and the realms saved.

"Send messengers to the commanding Lord Generals of the 4th and 5th Corps. Tell them to angle the axis of their attack towards Icecrown Citadel, let us see if we can assail his Highness the Litch King himself!" he barked out at a group of Captains that had gathered around him.

It took thirty minutes for the orders to get through, but it seemed well enough received. While the 2nd, and the remnants of the 3rd and 1st would remain in position to fight off the converging forces from the rear, the Night Elven forces along with the 4th and 5th would advance toward the heart of Icecrown in the same echelon formation that had prevailed so well on the icy planes of Northrend in the weeks past.

After this final force had been committed, there would be no turning back. And so he set off to lead the final charge against Icecrown, which was now ever-nearing to the battered Army of the Alliance.

Forest Line, head of the Night Elven frontlines

Barak Demonlasher grew impatient. His captain had put off the assault on the undead's right flank for too long now. If they were to advance as the orders came from the High Command, then they would have to do so soon.

Yet, suddenly, the troops he was inspecting began to move, and to their left rode the Panther Huntresses, their elite cavalry, leading the infantry into battle. A hail of arrows flew over them as they advanced past the dead forest which his force had been most unfortunate to have ended up in.

"Finally…" he spat out in Darnassiun; and so the Night Elven force began its move forward as well, leading the remnants of the Alliance's army which had so far withstood hundreds of miles of marches, crushing casualty figures, and the forces of the Scourge.

Forward Alliance Command Envoy

"It is time to finish this!" he yelled out as his remaining commanders gathered around him. Nods came from some, others were filled with a distressed look. They knew that there was one last chance for them to break out of the strangling circle of undead, or to escape via mass teleportation by the exhausted Mage Corps.

Yet, Alaric had one last trump card up his sleeve; the Waters of Eternity, the very source of life that had brought the Blood Elves under his command this far.

"My casters will create a massive attack in the fore of our force. All units are to advance, as we are belaying the orders of the 2nd and 1st Corps to stay in position and cover the rear. It has all been taken care of. Gentlemen, Light be with you all! Man your positions, and today this disaster which has gripped out minds for three years will be no more! Dismissed!"

This would be the last order of his command. Yet, somehow that held no meaning to him at all. Since Eolas's death, something had grown hollow inside him, reminding him of when the Sunwell had been consumed, and there was no more power for him and his people to feed off of. Yet, it was an emptiness of feelings, replaced by a cold hard logic.

And so the final act had begun. By synchronizing time with his commanders Alaric would use the Waters to create a protective shield around the army, and blast all those in the way to the Great Beyond. Yet it was not going to be easy…Dethal and Tanin had just recovered, and had not their full strength back, and it was easy to be lost in such power; to lose ones self in the excitement of such energy.

Once readied, at the fourteenth hour of the day, Dethal and Tanin reported to him, as he saw the army still managing to hold the enemy at bay; its torn banners, screaming sergeants, its history stretching back to the beginning of this glorious war.

_Now is the time. Now the hammer falls on the Scourge! _Alaric thought, as he saw Dethal and Tanin approach atop their mounts up the small hill he had acclaimed for himself.

"Are you with me?" he whispered, the very meaning and essence of this fight filling him.

Tanin merely nodded, an utterly determined look in his cold blue eyes. Dethal replied strongly "To the death, my sire, Lord of the High and Blood Elves"

"Good…then let us begin my friends" he replied solemnly.

He looked around one last time, knowing this would be the last peaceful moment he would have until that final terrible confrontation with the Lich King himself. As he looked around him, it seemed as if time slowed down; the torn and blood stained banners flapping wildly in the wind, the masses of soldiers throwing their weight against the enemy, the confusion of battle, all his sensed seemed heightened in this moment he knew would perhaps be his last free moment.

He hardened himself, and looked to the fore, calling up the arcane magic of the land, and beyond, something of which he rarely did. He placed the six Vials afore him. Concentrating he found the spark that had driven him all these long months and prepared. He called then upon the glistening Waters themselves, the feeling of elation and power nearly overcoming him again. And then the world lit!

Feeling Dethal and Tanin feeding themselves to him once again, he flung himself into the cover of the energy, and prepared to use it. He commanded the energy to wrap itself around the army, creating a bubble of protection. Any unlucky undead in the magical armor was immediately destroyed by the great ordering of the magic itself. As the undead charged again they found only ultimate death in touching the destructive bubble. Free for the moment of the Scourge's infinite forces, the soldiers cheered, and prepared to move forward. He then placed another bubble around himself and his two mana-feeders, to protect them when the army had moved beyond their range.

_Yes, you cannot touch us! With the Light and all good on our side, you shall all find peace this day! _his thoughts exploded.

As they moved forward under the cover of the great blue half-globe of scillinating magic, Alaric prepared his next move. He threw great blasts of the energy across the land, cutting wide swaths through the terrain and undead forces to make a clear path for the army.

And once again he probed Icecrown Citadel to see if its shield was still up, powered by the lost Vial; it was, and a new power began to rise in it, the Lich King's debuffing spell of silence nearly spent.

As great potions of land and the enemy were cleared out from before them, and the Scourge's attacks now futile, the remnants of the proud army of the Alliance began to pick up its pace.

Now that he had cleared a path and assured the survival of the army for now, Alaric turned now to watch vigilantly upon his eternal enemy, who might now any second be awaking from the spell of silence.

And there it was! A blast of mental power supported by a slight use of the Water's magic nearly threw him back. That one was directed straight at him! The Litch King hadn't even used much power from the Waters, most of the blast coming from his own mental power.

_He must be terrible indeed…_Alaric thought, as he countered, throwing his own blast of magical power at his enemy. And so once again the two traded blows that nearly tore Alaric apart, if not for the Waters.

Again entering the trance of the fight he directed the energies again and again at his enemy, first from above, summoning great clouds of storm that were quickly blown away by the Litch's own power, then using great waves of elemental flame to burn down the deadened wood that surrounded the Icecrown Glacier in an attempt to attack from all around, all the way till even using the earth itself to try and topple Icecrown Citadel, yet all was repelled and counter attacked, each time seemingly more powerful than the next.

_This is impossible! _Alaric thought _He isn't even using the power from the Waters that much. Doust he not know how to use such power! _

Yet he hardened himself again, knew that he _had _to succeed. The apparent stalemate continued, neither being able to penetrate each others mental and magical defenses.

Suddenly he felt a weakening in his mana-feed, snapped out of the trance, and noticed that Tanin had fallen on the ground, lying still, utterly spent. Dethal still stood, eyes shut tightly, forehead lathered in sweat. How long had he been entranced? It mattered not, for the shield around himself would protect them for the time being.

In the background, he spied Icecrown Citadel, the surroundings smoking and misted from the strikes he had tried against it. The army itself had advanced well, now within ballistae range of the actual Citadel, but yet another undead army seemed to appear and position themselves in front of the army.

_They'll be killed like all the hundreds of others before them if they go anywhere near the globe of energy…_he thought, letting himself a small smile. The undead charged, and suddenly a huge explosion rippled across the surface of the bubble. It was breached! Within ballistae range of Icecrown Citadel itself the army had been stopped!

"DAMNATION!" he roared. "I'm going to handle this myself…as it should have been" voice then dropping back into its deep bass.

Again he snapped back into the trance. _I'll have to do with just Dethal…not enough power to breach the Litch's defenses, and the undead have completely block the army. Surely the rest of their forces will be _c_augh_t_ up with the army soon so no longer can we rely on them to destroy Icecrown, but perhaps to weaken its base? Yes, that will do. They know what to do, they are brave, smart men. _He thought again of Tal Winfield, felt the loss of the superb strategist, but knew that it was his time and nothing could change it. _Once more attack to cover our advance should do it…_he then decided, knowing that he would have to get closer to Icecrown to assail it.

Summoning one final blast of climactic energy, he threw a wave of freezing wind across the battlefield, blowing many an undead back, and pushing deep into the Litch King's defenses.

With the Litch reeling from the attack, he quickly shook out of the trance again, which awoke Dethal with a start. Briefly informing him of the plan of attack, Dethal picked up the spent Tanin, and prepared to use the blink spell to transport them across the battlefield to the frontlines of the army.

With a nod, the energy enveloped them, and cast them directly into the line of battle.

In the air arrows were flung, followed by giant ballistae arrows, catapult's flaming rocks, and the few siege engine's left thorium tipped artillery shells. Magic shot itself through the lines, killing so many. And all around the Scourge's forces began to encircle again…

Frontlines 

Marcus Jonathan yet lived. He had been mixed in with his men when the chain of command had dissolved over the 1st Corps. He still was able to lead those around him, yet it was not many, a hundred at best he had decided.

He suddenly caught a burst of light in the corner of his eye, and spotted the crimson armor of the commanding general.

"Lord General!" he cried out, half in wonder, half seeking instruction on how to command the hopeless battle.

The figure approached amidst the sea of men and looked sternly into the eyes of the Azerothian general. "I knew you'd be in the thick of the fighting. Just like the old times eh?" he started off with a curt nod. "But we have not the time to dally. I am to prepare the remnants of our cavalry for a final assault on the Citadel itself. We shall break the lines of the enemy and assail the stairs of Icecrown, where all things shall be decided. _You_ are now in command of this army now. When you see Icecrown crumble, use what few mages there are left and teleport the remnants of our force the hell out of here; anywhere is safer than here. Light be with you Marcus." and with a wry smile, the Blood Elf suddenly disappeared amongst the men again, leaving a wide eyed and stunned General Marcus Jonathan.

Behind the Frontlines

He had managed to gather enough of a force, perhaps two hundred knights. Procuring two horses, freed from the deaths of their masters, Alaric and Dethal positioned themselves at the fore of the spearhead shaped formation.

The dirty, grime covered faces of the men were still ripe with anticipation and excitement of battle as they watched rouge ballistae shot impact across the surface of Icecrown Citadel, leaving gaping marks in the Nether-ice.

As the battle above and afore raged, Alaric made his final checks on the Waters. They were now securely tightened across his belt, hidden by the ebon blackness of his cape. This was the last move, the last offensive of the war. _And all wars if we fail…_ he thought silently.

He unsheathed the ancient elven rune-blade passed down by the various family lineages of the High Elves, the one said to be crafted by the first blacksmith of Quel'thalas, watched it gingerly as its runes glowed a bright orange, ready for the blood of his enemies.

"_Taren, yus manar iamen. Taren, yus manar reishtai_" (Today, all is avenged. Today, all is set right) he spoke in his native tongue.

All was ready. It was now or never. He raised a hand, and behind, Arrius, also riding with them in this final battle, blew deeply into the Lion Horn of Stormwind, which he had found in the caves of Stonetalon all those months ago.

The troops in their fore parted, and with a cry that shook the earth, the cavalry shot forth, blasting through the Scourge's lines with the help of Alaric and Dethal's flame spells. The Scourge's archers got of one weak volley, which caused some of the riders to be cast down with the deadly hail, yet not enough to slow the charge.

Trampling anything that got in their way that had not already been incinerated the quick strike towards Icecrown continued with more inertia than ever. They had passed a seven hundred yard past their lines in less than two minutes, cutting a wide swath through the undead, whether they be rotting ghouls, shambling abominations, or the foul obsidian statues.

As they continued forward unhindered, he lifted his right hand, signaling Arrius's right wing to cut farther north, creating a wider path for the cavalry as they changed shape from the spearhead to a single line.

Every few seconds a rider or his horse would collapse due to some kind of destructive ailment, whether it be the sword of a undead reaver, the butcher's knife of an abomination of the few arrows that penetrated their line, yet _still _it was not enough to stop them; the charge continued.

The ground below was a hard ice covered in a thick, packed layer of snow as if to keep it from being slippery. Here and there was a crack in the ice shelf that sundered it, mostly thanks to the flame magics that Alaric shot out in all directions.

As Arrius's force continued to widen the flank, Alaric heaved his horse to go faster, and as it did the great Citadel continued to grow, surrounded by a brilliant blue aura of magic.

"QUEL'THALAS!" Alaric cried out upon the wind as he ripped his blade and magic through the enemies in his way. Nothing would stop them, nothing could stop them…

Yet, when he looked to his sides, he now saw that most of the riders were missing in the action, either by death or separation. The lines closed as the number of riders continued to decrease. But they were so close now to the great pillar of ice that rose from the ground.

As they neared the base, Alaric noticed ruins from previous battles that had occurred here, and four obelisks that surrounded Icecrown, apparently doing nothing at the given moment. Directly ahead was a bridge that steeply climbed over a huge crack in the ice. The crossing slowed their attack though, having to compact the riders together against still so many Scourge.

With a cry, Alaric fired a plethora of magics amongst the enemies that surrounded them, wiping them out in instants. The fire engulfed the entire front of the great Citadel, which was perhaps a modest three hundred feet wide at the base.

Exhausted from the attack, Alaric felt the potency of the Waters still with him. Around, chaos reigned, as Alaric and the last few riders now strung together, the last in the force.

To his side, the panting Dethal smiled, eager with all the killing. They were now ten, the last hope of the free world. Nobody knew of the extent of the Scourge's forces, how great they had grown. If they could not stop it now, or at least weaken it greatly, nothing, not the combined armies at the Battle of Mount Hyjal, nothing, could stop it.

And so they rode, hell reigning around. The arrows zipped past him, hit the rider to his left in the faceplate, the rider then slumping in the saddle, its horse overtaken by the undead.

His eyes burned as the freezing wind chipped into them, muscles with the feeling of rubber, an arrow protruding from his leg. He ripped the arrow from his leg and quickly shrugged off the pain, prepared as the Citadel neared.

Straight ahead he saw a long, winding staircase up the gleaming tower of ice, literally imbedded and carved out of it. Still they continued, the sword punishing the enemies of the world.

"NOW! DISMOUNT!" Alaric screamed out, and the few riders left pulled the reins on their mounts, slowed, and leap off their mounts. Alaric threw himself in a midair summersault brought the blade down on a lumbering abomination, gripping it for dear life as the abomination howled in pain at its stabbed shoulder. The Blood Elf withdrew the blade, now covered in putrid blood, and brought it down on the abomination's skull with a satisfying crunch.

Nearly nothing now stood between them and the staircase. He quickly retrieved a Vial, and shattered it against the ground. "Dethal! Go! Secure the staircase!" he yelled out above the din of battle.

With his own exhaustion racking him, Alaric raised his hands, alone against the entire army of the Scourge, saw them quickly rushing at him, surrounding him. He quickly chanted his spell of control that he had learned from the Book of Medivh, and a brilliant golden aura surrounded the base of the tower, the undead caught within it melting away in seconds, their anguished screams filling the air. The shattered vial…now _that _would hold the undead at the base of the Citadel at bay for a long time, enough time to secure their victory.

Yet as he peered at the great spire of ice that reached into the clouds, he saw the Scourge's greatest troops positioned amongst the stairs, above the aura and safe from its effects. If it was a fight up they wanted then it was one they would get; these knights were also the crack troops of the Alliance, and so this was bound to be a great battle to the top.

Alaric rushed to rejoin the last seven of his knights and Dethal, who then began to climb the very stairs of Icecrown Citadel, the home and hearth of the undead Scourge.

The stairs circled around and around for what seemed like miles, yet as they advanced they drew ever closer to the top, to the heart of the enemy.

"More undead milord!" one of the knights called out.

"Fight to the death! Fight warriors!" Alaric replied, voice high toned. He looked back at those that still were behind him, those very few. As the undead warriors clad in mithril and lightforge armor continued to rush down on them, Alaric yelled out a battle cry, and rushed forward, soon followed by Dethal, and the rest of the company. And there on the stairs of Icecrown they fought. As one they threw up their blades and brought them down, only two of the seven penetrating the amazingly crafted armor. The dozen skeletal reapers, eyes burning a golden flame, came down upon the seven as a storm upon a plain.

One knight was impaled, his life blood gushing out, as he was flung off the side of the narrow staircase into the din of battle below. Alaric ducked as a blade swashed across his hair, slicing a good portion of hair off as Dethal and another knight struck at another reaper, cutting it down on its unarmored, rotted ankles, then taking advantage of its disability, and striking it down for good. The other knights battled furiously with their own reapers, another one of their number killed before their enemy was dispatched.

Now they were five, but the ascension continued.

Below, smoke and fire gushed up from the battle. Across the plains of Northrend the fight continued, more blood spilled as the few last vanguard continued up the steep staircase towards the top. Yet another group of skeletal reapers met them on the way up, yet another battle to contend for.

Summoning the flame of the earth Alaric melted the armor of the unnatural creatures before they even reached them, yet their will and strength kept them coming, even as their molten armor charred their bones.

One of the reapers suddenly jumped out of their advancing column on the wall of men and elves, lopping off the head of another knight, a pillar of blood marking the man's death. Alaric surged forward to meet the reaper, and did likewise at the unarmored creature. With all the ferocity and strength in them the four fought, the other two knights far from home and hope, but with fire in their hearts.

Pulling a series of swordsman maneuvers Alaric managed to kill another two of the creatures before the rest were put to rest by a blast of elemental wind, knocking them off the hundreds of feet high spire.

_Shouldn't use…magic…anymore…this'll exhaust me even…with the help…of the Waters…_Alaric thought, his strength waning.

And so again they continued. As they ascended, they began to notice strange runes glowing within the ice itself, whether demonic or otherwise. The cloud ceiling quickly met them as they exhaustingly continued the climb, blocking out the great masses that clashed below, and above…inky blue skies that stretched across a vast plain of broiling black clouds.

"We near the top my Lord, Alaric'Quel. I believe there are no more reapers to falter our advance…" Dethal reported, while the two knights shivered incessantly in their armor, unable to withstand the elements as Elves were.

"Then let us end it once and for all. You have all been good souls, and shall forever find peace and happiness in the Light. We…shall be victorious, or we shall die trying" he spoke, eyes tearing at the moment "It is here, that all the tragedy that has occurred these years will be defined and avenged. Arise, chosen of the Light! Let us do battle one last time!" he finished by ramming his blade into the ice wall, chips of crystal frozen water splashing over their armor. "Let that be a scar the Litch King shall never forget!"

They neared the top…here, the final battle would begin. Just above an eerie luminescent light pulsed, the very heart of the Scourge itself within their grasp. The top was just within a few steps now…

As the final steps passed away, Alaric, trembling, clutched tightly the vials in his left hand, prepared to unplug the enchanted stoppers at any moment. As they passed the final steps, the top became visible. At their immediate sides were to walls of nether-ice that ended in jagged pikes that seemed to puncture the painfully blue sky. Across from them was an open ground perhaps twenty feet across that ended at a sudden abnormality in the shiny slate surface of the ice; a massive pillar of glowing blue nether-ice sported with skulls and orange runes. Carved into the pillar of jagged ice was what resembled a throne, large, and of something seeming partly ice, partly…something else; and upon the throne sat a black figure, seemingly soaking up the luminescence of the damnable place.

Garbed in ebon plate and mail; with skulls etched and carved in at the center chest piece, knee caps, shoulder pads, and shin pads, a brown, weathered fur interweave in the leggings and chest mail, oversized shoulder pauldrons, and with a helm of the same color of armor adorned across the head embellished with a single blue amulet inset in the forehead, and three spikes from the head, sat the Litch King, calm, seemingly elsewhere.

In his right hand, which dropped from the side of the Frozen Throne, was the rune blade, Frostmourn, its long, jagged length sticking deeply into the ice below it. It's goat-skull caricature at the hilt eye's glowed a slight grayish color, giving off a similar mist. Across the blade itself were etched demonic runes, faintly luminescent orange-crimson light emitted, the blade seemingly not of the world.

_This is he…the one that has…done…all of this _Alaric thought, the conception of such a moment overwhelming him.

Beneath the armor, a human or elven form, one that Alaric knew once belonged to the Prince Arthas Menethil of Lordaeron, his white hair pouring forth from beneath the helm. Yet the form remained still as Alaric, Dethal, and the two human knights set up in a line, slowly advancing, swords pointed toward the sitting mass of armor.

But in less time than Alaric could fathom, nigh instantaneously, his legs, and that of his companions were encased in blocks of the unbreakable nether-ice. Swinging at it like his comrades did availed him nothing-still the figure sat.

Slowly, Alaric stopped the struggle, not even denting the ice. Reaching into the vast ambient arcane magic of this place he summoned forth a mighty blast of Azeroth's own elemental fire, which quickly melted the ice off of his legs and those of his comrades.

Yet as soon as he had done that, two white lights appeared from under the figure's helm; its eyes. The knight next to Alaric grasped his heart and made a chortled noise, dropping to his knees. The black figure at the end of the rise stood, extending its full height, taller than Alaric himself, and far larger in its far thicker armor. The knight, on his knees, made one last scream as he was suddenly ripped into bloody shreds by seemingly nothing at all but open air.

Horrified at the bloody spectacle, realizing that the mental power of the Litch King was next to nothing, Alaric quickly uncorked one of the Vials, yet was not quick enough to try his next move.

He found himself frozen in place, unable to move, some foul magic impairing him. Dethal and the surviving knight rushed the Litch King, who stood still, but raising a hand, his unblinking eyes flaring. Dethal was thrown far back, out of Alaric's limited sight. The knight though, skittered across the ground to Alaric's feet.

With a deep stomping, the dread figure closed in on him and the knight, who frantically tried to arise, to escape. In an instant, the Litch King raised the knight's still writhing body into the air with his mind, and suddenly impaled it upon Frostmourn-the knight stopped his writhing, and exhaled deeply and inhaled lightly, still alive, yet dying. With a flash, the Litch King thrust his sword downward, pointing in the direction of the edge of the Frozen Throne, and by his mind's will, the body, still partially alive, was thrown in a bloody mess toward the edge, where it stopped, before being torn asunder like his former comrade.

Alaric could do nothing but stare on in horror, still as could be. Then, the Litch King shot his glare at Alaric, and suddenly he felt the probing of its mind in his own, the pressure…it felt as if his skull were being crushed by an invisible hand…redness began to flood his vision…

_Dead before I could even slash at him…_Alaric thought, sure those were his last words. Yet, from behind, a roar, and Dethal jumped, bloodied at the mouth and nose. In an amazing series of swordsman maneuver, he ended up behind the Litch King, and smiled triumphantly, preparing his attack.

And that was it! Alaric was free from the Litch King's grasp, fell backward, still reeling from the mental control of his body…felt the vial still clutched in his hand…

In front of him, Dethal, about to strike, was suddenly thrown backwards and smashed into the Frozen Throne itself with a bone crunching snap. Without hesitation or thought, Alaric reach up with the vial, and poured its contents on his face.

In what seemed like an eternity, yet was less than a second as he knew, his power increased one hundred fold. His entire mind seemed open to possibilities never thought of before. The figure once again glared at him, and he felt its invisible hand trying to once again crush his skull. But this time, he resisted!

"**Most interesting…" **the creature spoke, his voice seemingly ethereal, yet real; a seemingly human voice, yet shadowed by some great blackness that stretched into the deepness of this earth itself. "**It seems that I underestimated the power of these…Waters…it has not been since the last attack-all those years ago-that someone was able to resist an attack of mine…yet it has been since then that anyone has made it to my Throne. I know of you, Alaric Faltron'Quel, your crusade to destroy me. I know your deepest secrets, strengths and weaknesses"**

Alaric, invigorated with power, stood now, raising his blade to match his opponents, whose cape rustled in the wind. "I have come to destroy your Betrayer! And to destroy you Litch King! I know you both as the destructor of this world! Now, DIE!" he screamed out.

And the blades met in a sparkle of metal against metal, flames meeting at the blades. The two rune blades, _Frostmourn, _and, _Quel'Barrar_ met, and bathed in each others power.

The seemingly infinite power of his opponent only doubled his own resolve, and Alaric charged forward, flame jetting from his free hand, which was blown away by the power of the Litch King.

With the wave of a hand Alaric was pushed back, the blast tearing at the cloth on his cape, and chipping the front of his armor, but he did not fall. Throwing himself forward, Alaric cut down with his blade, a move parried by the Litch King. He shifted his weight to his left foot, and escaped the deadlock to come again at the ribcage of the Litch King, another parried move.

With astonishing speed and strength the Litch King threw his sword down upon Alaric's head, which nearly hit, Alaric shifting to the side in just the knick of time before the blade came down upon his own blood red pauldron, cracking it in two clean pieces.

With a backstab, Alaric shot toward the Litch King again, and this time managed to hit the armor itself, scraping the mail, dislodging a ring or two. Now, the deep sapphire amulet glowed with great intensity, and the next thing Alaric knew he was on his back with a great racking pain in his stomach. Getting up, he noticed the figure walking toward him, and felt a slight trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth.

"Insanity…" he muttered, now in the heat of battle. He lunged forward once again to meet the blade of his enemy. Upon the roof of the world, the two powerful entities fought a fight like a dance, parry, lunge, strike.

"_Tar lethan dalas maner_!" Alaric cried, swearing his battle oath during one interval phase. The two fighters, now dislodged from the fight, slowly circled one another.

**"Power…you have it in you. Not enough though. No, not nearly enough. Soon, my armies will cleanse this world as they would have done if not for you. The age of the living shall come crashing down upon your head, and the death of all things shall echo across this world forever as we launch into the Twisting Nether, to destroy all our enemies, demonic, or living…" **the Litch King spoke, his voice echoing and painful to hear.

"Tell me…Arthas…what was it that made you betray your life!" Alaric spat, the circle still turning.

**"I did not betray my life naïve fool…I began it…" **the voice sounded more human now, more like the Arthas that Alaric had once met in the royal court of Lordaeron. Beneath the helm Alaric thought he saw on the mottled snowy skin of Arthas a twisted smile upturn on his purple lips.

And again he lunged, though his time throwing a bolt of electricity at Alaric. With the tattered remains of his enchanted cape, Alaric absorbed the magical blast, but the blade cut deep into his torso as he just managed to jump out of the way.

The wound froze like the ice itself, Frostmourn doing its own damage slowly. Shrugging off the pain, Alaric parried another attack, and another, as they flew at him, some missing and chipping off bits of the Frozen Throne itself.

In a daring strike, he shot a ball of green flame at the Litch King, and cut at the legs, shattering one of the boot plates before being punched in the chest with a ball of icy black demon majik which in turn sent pellets made out of his chest plate into the air.

Heaving heavily, trying to regain breath, he saw that the Litch King was still standing still, ready to pounce on him at any moment. This was not how he envisioned the final battle...

He felt deeply within himself, touched the power that the Waters had given him temporarily, and their surge went up in him like a sudden blast of energy. In the blink of an eye he was in front of the Litch King, the charge of frightening speed. The elven blade met Frostmourn with such ferocity that both swords began to glow a hot red, their magical bindings tearing at each other.

Inches from his face puffs of white steam rose from his enemy's mouth…_Yes…now you see that I can still defeat you, even if it costs me my life! _Alaric thought, throwing the sword towards his enemy's neck, which would have decapitated the Betrayer had he not thrown his neck backwards avoiding the blade's length by mere centimeters, causing his ebon helm-crown to slip off his head, letting a cascade of white hair pour down to his shoulders.

"_Arthas…"_ Alaric sneered, disgusted with the man's face. Across from him, unmasked was Arthas, once the noble son of King Terenas Menethil II of Lordaeron. It was this…thing-that had turned on his own countrymen and father, and destroyed his country, Quel'thalas, Stromgarde, and Dalaran. It was because of him that the lives of millions had been lost.

The unshaven face was a pasty white, deep crevasses and wrinkles dotting his forehead and thin cheekbones. His eyes glowed the same white-blue of unspeakable power, something he had surely not used even now. Bulging veins crisscrossed his neck and forehead, and a somewhat upturned purple lip displayed a set of rotting yellow teeth that seemed to be sharpened.

"You are truly a soulless creature Arthas…" Alaric called out, utter hatred flowing in great green flames from his eyes.

**"Once…not anymore; I am the Lord of the Scourge, King of Lordaeron, and Destructor of this World. You would do little to stand in front of me little elf…your kind should have died with your homeland, and with your pathetic weakling of a friend, Eolas…" **he replied, the voice echoing across the top of Icecrown.

"YOU DESTROYED HIM!" Alaric screamed in anguish, flashing the blade towards Arthas, nearly cutting him at the shoulder, but the Litch King was too fast, dodged the attack and struck home on Alaric's back, slashing a wide gash through it and knocking Alaric to the ground.

Pain coursed through him. Pain and guilt. This beast had shattered the mind of his most trusted companion and friend, and turned him against the cause.

_Yet another failure on my part…and another sin on his…_Alaric thought, face climbing out of the ice to see the black figure stand atop him. The pain…it shot through his back and hip where he had been caught earlier…but he had to go on, had to finish the fight-had to _win_.

Summoning his strength he rose, felt the warm blood dripping beneath his armor, and raised _Quel'Barrar _in the battle pose, ready at once for combat. With another series of moves the top of Icecrown became something more akin to a battle arena or fighter's circle, as the two powerful beings, Alaric empowered by the Waters, and the Litch King, Arthas, fought it out to the end.

But at the end of one series of maneuvers the Litch King raised his hand once again, and summoned his mighty mental power, an ethereal power snatching _Quel'Barrar _out of Alaric's hand and throwing it across Icecrown, digging it deep into the side of the Frozen Throne.

Weaponless, Alaric stood resolute still facing Arthas, whose oversized pauldrons made his head appear small and unfitting to the monster armor.

**"Fool…now only in the end do you see the truth…"** and with that Arthas approached at a fast pace, now running towards Alaric, Frostmourn ready to pierce his soft body.

Feeling the magic of the world with him, Alaric stood, ready for the impact against a shield he quickly erected in front of him. And with a screeching noise Frostmourne was overturned, in a shower of sparks forced to the side by the golden sphere of energy Alaric threw around himself.

"Andu falas!" Alaric yelled out, summoning one of the oldest, yet most powerful tricks of a Blood Elf.

Beneath the Litch King the incredibly strong nether-ice began to split, and melt, turning into slick water, and from the cracks rose a great flame, engulfing the damnable Arthas.

Through the pillar of flames Alaric could see nothing, but for a second he allowed himself reprieve, his body racking with aches from the fight, even in his heightened state.

But suddenly a might gust of wind blew away the flame, and there stood Arthas, eyes now a flaming golden, hands upraised, Frostmourne sheathed. From his hands a great green wave of warlock-demon energy flushed, covering the top of Icecrown in what seemed like a green cloud of energy. Alaric answered the call, raising his hands, and invoking the power of all magic that he had ever learned, a great rainbow of color, green, blue, gold, orange, and more pouring from his gauntlets.

Unaware to both, in the skies above a great storm began to grow. Below the clouds that had hidden the top of Icecrown were blown away by the higher altitude storm, which began to rage around them.

Deadlocked in the battle, their ambient energies, now meeting in a vast plethora of energy was creating this unearthly storm. Lightning and thunder crackled in the skies, striking the ground and destroying all in its path, undead or otherwise. Freezing rain and acid rain began to pour from the magical storm, as with great gale, and great flaming comets descended from the clouds

Icecrown itself rumbled with the great storm, the great spires below it toppling in clouds of ice shards. The chains that for some unknown reason were connected to Icecrown began to crack, and shatter under the intense power of the storm.

Now it seemed as if the entire storm was centering around the battle of the two combatants on Icecrown. In truth the storm was the ambient energy of the entire land, being sucked into the duel of wits and power between Alaric, vastly empowered by the impossibly powerful Waters, and Arthas, the Litch King and connection between mortal and god, yet it continued to rage nonetheless.

Frontlines of the Alliance

Barak Demonlasher gazed on in awe and horror. He knew what was happening. The fool was using the power of the Waters, something that would undoubtedly call the Burning Legion back to the world.

"Damn him!" he crocked, voice dry and hoarse from the battle. It seemed as if the battle itself had stopped, the Litches and Death Knights, undead, and living, had all stopped to watch and protect themselves from the raging storm and deadly spectacle.

But deep within himself Barak knew that this could be it, a final victory over all evil in the world. _Possibly…_

Icecrown Summit

In a soundless scream, Alaric continued to pour his life's precious energies as the energies around him into the battle. Whoever broke from this would die undoubtedly; but…_No…I cannot keep this up. He must die by the sword! _The thought shot through him.

And with a final push of power, Alaric caught the Litch King off guard, his enemy stumbling back in surprise at how much energy was thrown at him. Suddenly, a great beam of rouge lightening struck the side of Icecrown, shattering its base. The tower began to list to the side. Alaric clung for life against the side of the tower, which was now clearly falling at great speed and rate. As the wind cut against him, he quickly threw up a divine shield around him, to protect from the fall. He saw the Litch King, now with a shield of bristling blue energy around him, strike Frostmourne into the floor of the tower, and hold his ground as the great citadel began to crumble.

With a deafening explosion, the ice fell upon him, and Icecrown had fallen…the tower which had housed Arthas, the Litch King, the very nerve center of the Scourge, had been destroyed.

Alaric, pain writhing through him, understood this was his one chance at surprise. He quickly pushed through the rubble that had accumulated atop his shield, and once again saw the sky. Above, a great ring of clouds had acclimated themselves around the shards of Icecrown, seemingly drinking at the energy that once flowed from the tower, yet the sky directly above the tower was still a perfect blue. Spotting both Arthas brushing the ruins off himself, and his blade, Alaric sprung.

Alaric rushed to retrieve his blade, which in one quick tug was freed from a block of nether-ice, though as quickly as he was upon Arthas, Frostmourn again met his blade. Screeching his blade across Arthas's, he was able to twirl out of the deadlock, and give one great slash. Arthas's head turned to avoid the blade…and when he turned back to look at Alaric, a great gash had set itself across his thin, pale cheek, eyes now furious.

The swords met again and again, showering the ruins of Icecrown with sparks and embers, but in a finale move, Alaric thrust his sword into the air, called a word of power, and a great bolt of lightening flew out of the air and embellished his sword with a brilliant white aura, which he struck then towards the Litch King's plated chest.

With astonishing speed and the strength of the augmented blade Alaric's _Quel'Barrar _dug deep into Arthas's plated chest, and with a satisfying crunch embedded itself into one of his ribs.

A pained look shadowed over Arthas's face, but the pain soon was extinguished, and the Litch King kicked Alaric backwards, and grabbed the hilt of _Quel'Barrar, _and withdrew it from his body, the length covered in blood, yet the Litch King's ultimate power enough to keep any one wound from killing him.

Alaric stood again, weaponless now, and completely exhausted. His enemy hadn't had to fight his way up a tower and use his magic to defend an army.

But in the way that Arthas now moved he could see that he was injured, blood oozing forth from the wound. With a burst of final energy Alaric rushed forward, evading Frostmourn in just the knick of time as it cut through his brow, and was able to retrieve his own blade.

Once again the two circled each other, the storm above still raging, though the sky just above them seemingly opening and filling the ruins Icecrown with a perfect, golden aura of the sun.

"Have at you!" Alaric yelled out one last time, and the two assailants charged toward one another. As the two charged, Alaric summoned his last energy to prepare for a final strike to decapitate Arthas.

And the two struck with the force of a thousand men! Yet, _Quel'Barrar _shattered under the hit, the top half of the blade spinning into the air. Frostmourn, hungry for more blood, continued forward, and then doubled back to strike its enemy through the back.

With a thud, Alaric felt the blade embed itself within his stomach, and in his mind, its cold presence ripping the life from him. Warm blood bubbled up into his mouth, as he stood; fell to his knees, eyeing the world with finality.

_At least…I made a…good fight…_he though, feeling life seep out of him.

From behind, a great roar "NOOO!"

Icecrown Ruins

Dethal saw the blade plunge itself into Alaric as he had opened his eyes, unaware of what had caused him to lose consciousness. He noticed that Icecrown itself had collapsed, and found himself strewn across the ruins of the once tall spire, in some miraculous way surviving.

A great cry echoed from within him "NOOO!" as he saw Alaric on his knees, death nearly upon him.

Fury rose within him, and finding the blade of one of the crushed knights, he rushed forward to meet the Litch King. Arthas, blade still impaling Alaric, suddenly jerked it out of him, the razor sharp ends of each spike doing more damage as it exited the wound. With that, Alaric fell to the icy surface, motionless.

And their two blades met, Frostmourne splattered with the blood of his liege. But he was no match for Arthas, the Litch King just playing with him.

For less than a minute they battled back and forth, every one of Dethal's moves easily countered by his enemy whist he was barely able to even parry_. Foolishness must have gripped me_ he thought _I should have gone for the Waters first!_

**"Enough"** the great voice bellowed from his enemy. And in one strike the blade was thrown from his hands and he was forced to his knees by some invisible force…the Litch King's mental power.

"And this is how I die…executed like a pig" he muttered, barely able to open his mouth.

But as soon as Arthas raised Frostmourn in a final slicing motion, a great shadow descended upon him. Dethal saw the look of confusion on his face as he looked up to behold a great sapphire dragon coming straight for them.

A great blue flame shot from its open maw towards Arthas, directed _only _at Arthas. The Litch King threw up his blade, and met the great fireball, and was barely able to hold it back as the dragon continued toward him.

But with the grace of his kind, the massive dragon disengaged, and landed upon the still placid clouds of ice shards that made up Icecrown. With a blast of magic the Litch King was thrown back, now tired by his fight with a being so empowered by the Waters, and unable to contend with such a surprise, but given time would be able to slay even this dragon.

Dethal saw that the dragon was powerful; nay, more than just powerful! He was brimming and bristling with magic and energy, a being nearly a strong or as strong as the Water invigorated Alaric had been.

The massive behemoth let out a terrifying roar which shook the ground, and caused Arthas to put himself at the ready in an attempt to destroy the dragon usuing naught but his mental strength, alas though, the dragon's strength and resilience allowed him not even that.

Suddenly, the great blue looked directly at Dethal, and a voice appeared in his head **"All will be explained later. If you wish to live, retrieve your injured master and climb upon my back. Secure yourselves tightly amongst my scales" **

Without thinking Dethal did as he was told, instantly snatching the bleeding body of Alaric, who now lay prone, unmoving except for ragged gasps of breath. He quickly assailed the blue's scales, climbing onto his back carefully keeping Alaric elevated with his reserves of energy. After he had secured himself and Alaric, whom he placed a spell of stasis on to preserve his last drops of life, the great blue roared again, and slashed at Arthas.

Arthas grinned, and dove forward, gashing at the blue's underbelly. The dragon was defeated in all attacks it had made, its surprise now gone. And suddenly Arthas, though wounded, seemed to grow more powerful than ever, yet not as powerful as he seemed he could get. The destruction of Icecrown and its energies must have injured him greatly in some way, perhaps as the Elves had suffered from their loss of magic from the Sunwell, Arthas was suffering a temporary injury to his power to control the Scourge or even his own power. A great ebon aura surrounded him, and his glowing eyes flamed. With a great blast of frost magic, he quickly froze a leg of the dragon, his main shot missing as the great blue barely dodged in time. Arthas seemed very tired now, his moves beginning to become sluggish.

Howling in pain at the frostbite, the dragon, his limb now turning a blackish purple, released his great wings, and took off in flight. Upon the blue's back, Dethal fumbled with one of the three last Vials, and dropped a bit of it upon his palm, enough to intensify the amplitude of his spell a hundredfold.

In a gush of divine magic, he unleashed a great orb of power around the ruins of Icecrown, a prison of a sort, like the shield that Alaric had used to protect the advancing army. In there, against the powers of the Waters themselves, the Litch King would be stranded for a while.

**"Elf, do not dabble in things you cannot comprehend" **the voice boomed through his head again, a hint of pain in it. As soon as Dethal had noticed the frostbite on the dragon's paw he knew it was going to claim the limb, no healing magic reversing the effects of black arts such as this one.

Dethal, unable to comply, hung for dear life as the dragon soared through the air.

"Why isn't he striking us down?" Dethal sputtered, exhaustion racking his body.

**"You know why. Without the connection to Icecrown, which was a major hub of energy to the Twisting Nether, Arthas is temporarily weakened, even though he may not show it" **the dragon's mind-speak replied.

True enough, the Scourge below seemed…panicky, riled up, unrestful, and in some cases even hostile to one another. The dragon had flown them not far, the remnants of the army directly below them. Dethal was shocked…from all directions undead flocked, while a pathetic semicircle, a mere smattering of men, a thousand, two thousand perhaps, continued to battle to death.

**"Tell them to withdraw. The battle is over. I will enhance your powers with my own. You can speak with your mind to your captain now" **the dragon commanded. Dethal felt himself nodding. It _was _over. Not just the battle, but the campaign, and the war. But had they lost? Dethal could not accept the fact. Too many thousands had died.

Using his own powers, Dethal sought out General Marcus Jonathan, now in command of the fight, or at least when they had departed. "General" Dethal spoke out with his mind, feeling the General's nerve-racked and battle lusted mind edging against his, and then suddenly filled with surprise and suspicion.

"If you seek to overturn my mind, you will not succeed!" he cried out.

"Peace, it is I, Dethal of Tharenwind, Captain to the Lord Marshal, Alaric'Quel. I am now in command of the force. Order Mage Corps to set themselves up amongst the men and mass teleport the army away, as close to the Navy's base of operations at Daggerfall Bay. From there commence a full retreat back to Kul Tiras, the battle is over"

He felt a wave of depression and elation both in the mind of his subordinate, as he replied warily.

As the dragon circled above, Dethal saw as the army's surviving formations began to be enveloped in a vast white light, and disappear. In the distance the shield he had thrown up against Arthas still held, if only for the moment, giving the army the chance to make its retreat.

**"Let us find peace in this troubled land, and I shall explain everything too you, including where your master first got his ideas for this war" **the dragon barked out, flying off into the vast, frozen wilderness toward the west.

Unknown Field, Northrend

They had landed safely, the dragon hopping along on his three uninjured limbs. Dethal had seen the army-or the little remnant of it- to safety, and now on a field adjacent to the place where the army had teleported, Dethal and the dragon had found refuge from the Scourge's persistent forces.

**"Hurry…give me strength to still heal your master. There may be a chance for him yet" **the dragon insisted. Dethal nearly retorted, sure of his master's soon to be death. Even with the help of the Holy Light or a paladin or priest, it would be night impossible to bring Alaric back to the living now.

**"Your spell of stasis soon expires…if you wish to save him, you shall give me your strength so I can save his life" **

"As you wish, but I know there is no hope for him now" Dethal said, sliding himself and using spells of levitation to ease the injured body of Alaric to the ground.

Once done, he began channeling what little energy he had left in him to the dragon, whom in turn turned to the body of Alaric, opened his great blue eyes, and let force an aura of golden magic. The gaping wound in Alaric's stomach began to close in on itself, the flesh and tissue sowing itself back together, invigorated by the burst of life from magic.

**"He will never be the same. The blade scarred his body as it did his soul. He will not be the same person you knew. Though the same person, he will be…hardened by this war and his wounds" **the dragon replied, eyeing Alaric's rapidly healing body.

Suddenly, Alaric sat up and coughed a torrent of blood that had accumulated in his throat. Gagging, he began to kneel, and get up, beginning to notice his surroundings.

"What? How…" he said weakly.

"Milord!" Dethal cried out "The dragon saved us, just in time as well! Arthas was about to finish me off when this great blue descended upon him, and we were able to escape with your injured body!"

"Arthas? Damn him! The bastard bested me in an equal duel…if only…" Alaric said, still not noticing the dragon.

**"SILENCE MORTAL!" **the dragon boomed, getting the attention of Alaric and Dethal.

Alaric stood, blasted away by the new foe. **"It is I…the Prophet that guided your hand to this moment" **

Confusion swept through Alaric as the dragon's great form began to ripple, and diminish into a stooped, old, human figure. "By the Light!..." Alaric muttered.

**"I am Drur'shan, First Son of Malygos, Father of the Blue Dragon Flight. It was foreseen by the Aspects that in these years to come, the Scourge, and in turn the Burning Legion, would grow too powerful to defeat, and so I was set forth as the avatar of their will, to start a war to destroy the Scourge, or at least weaken it to the point where it had not the power to overrun Azeroth, jewel of the Titans. As this foolish world is, dragons are seen as brutish animals with no minds. I could not myself lead an army. Even in human form, I would have been discovered by you mortals, and so I decided upon a more covert way to end the Scourge…you, Alaric Faltron'Quel" **

Alaric stared out, the events of the past few hours zapped out of his mind, memory filling his mind. "You…you are the one that told me of the Waters of Eternity! You are the one that began all this! You-" Alaric cut himself off, allowing the dragon prophet to continue.

**"Yes…I…all those months ago it was I who first told you of the Waters. It was I who told you that you were to embark on this crusade to rid the world of the evil of the Scourge, fueling your hatred and despair. And now things come full circle. Though you were not able to defeat the Scourge, you have weakened it _substantially. _By destroying countless litch lords, death knights, and soldiers, and by taking away control of many of their lands, destroying Icecrown, and more, you have nearly destroyed the Scourge, and would have done so had you chosen carefully your maneuvers during your fight with the damnable Litch King" **

"I…is there any way to still defeat him? We can still go back, transport ourselves back, destroy the Scourge! There is still time" Alaric said, thought rising.

**"No…the Litch King is weakened himself, the loss of his tower taking much of his power away, more than I or even he anticipated. And it would be suicide to return anyway. I myself tried to best him, and even I, the son of an Aspect, was humiliated before him, even in his weakened state. No, the war is over, and its goals have been accomplished, for now at least" **

"For you and your vaunted dragon Flights at least!" Alaric shot back, anger rising in him. He stood directly in the path of the great dragon. "Your people's blood has not been shed! Your lands have not been lost! The Scourge will regroup and come at us again! When the last reports from Lordaeron came, the Scourge had pushed back our armies, taken back the lands we reclaimed from them. How is that a victory? And he still has one of the Vials!" Alaric nearly screamed out.

**"My people's blood has been shed!" **the dragon retorted. **"We, the blue dragonflight have suffered longer than you have against the Litch King! We first inhabited Northrend, not he. And he took all that away from our flight, just now beginning to recover from our first destruction. And as to victory? I never said it was victory. What it has given you, and I, all of us, is time; time to prepare, time to properly organize ourselves to hold back the Scourge and Burning Legion, time to fight again. As to the stolen Vial…I made sure no one will ever see its contents again" **

Alaric began to understand, seeing that in its weakened state, the Scourge could and would do little to try and unleash its now much diminished power against the world. It would just sit in the land it had accumulated, slowly gathering its forces…slow enough to allow the other side reprieve. The Scourge would never be the same.

Alaric nodded in agreement now, fully understanding what the sacrifice meant. "What must I do now to continue to serve the people of Azeroth" Alaric said, making no distinction between Horde or Alliance

"**It shall fall to you, Alaric'Quel. Using the powers of the Waters, you continue on this mission until your dying day as has been foreseen by me. You shall be at the very front of the fight against the Scourge and Burning Legion. Your part in this world…" **

Daggercap Bay

Alaric, Dethal, and a small contingent of Blood Elves stood at the edge of the retreating army.

"Milord…I do not understand" Dethal said in despair.

"Nor do you have to. The blue explained much to me, much more than his words said for themselves. It has not been in vain Dethal, this fight, this war, it has brought the Scourge down a peg from invincible to at least a slim chance of defeat on their part. We can still win, but to do so we must have help, Dethal…" he replied, ageless elven voice seemingly airy like a sprite.

Dethal stood utterly confused.

Alaric pulled out one of the three remaining Vials, poured it against the ground, waved a hand, and immediately a ripple tore in the air before them. A huge portal now stood in their midst, its chaotic magic twisting and writhing as it was tamed by Alaric's spell.

"I travel to Outland, Dethal…I leave you in control of this force. In my absence, you are to create a force dedicated to fight the evils in and outside of this world. Whatever it may be, I expect it ready by the time of my return"

Alaric let out a rare natured smile, and handed Dethal the hilt of his shattered blade along with one of the two remaining Vials. "I recovered it and hid it under my cape as the battle went sour against the Litch King" he said, pointing to the blade " There are now two Sunstriders left that we know of on this world. I, and Eldin Sunstrider. We know not where Eldin is, as he never journeyed with us in this battle. I am now to leave, to find Kael'thas and whatever forces may help us that are on the ruins of Draenor that is now called Outland. I give you this blade, _Quel'Barrar, _the High Sword, given to me by my father and his father to him. I leave you as the commander of this force, the responsibility of creation this new fighting unit, and as the Regent Lord of Quel'Thalas and any Blood Elves that still follow the Great Pine Tree Banner. I shall see you win time. May the Light forever be with you my friend…"

And with that, Alaric breathed deeply, a determined look on his slanted eyes, his last breath of air from Azeroth, and boldly stepped through the rippling portal, and out of view.

In seconds, the portal closed in on itself forever, leaving Dethal and the few surviving Blood Elves of the Expedition and War surrounding him.

Suddenly, one fell to his knee in front of the dazed Dethal.

"I, Duran Talonfist, accept you as my liege and lord, to die for and live for!" he let out in Sin'drassi, the language of the High Borne. And so the others followed, kneeling, prepared for orders from their new liege.

_This force you seek shall be committed by the time you return milord…until then…and until that day comes I shall watch over the Blood Elves for you…_his thoughts echoed.

Daggercap Bay

Upon a small hill Genn Blackswift watched as the small spit of men continued to trudge through the snow, all covered in grime and blood. Behind them they left a trail of dead, either from exhaustion from battle and now this long march to the sea, or wounds from the battle itself.

His regiment…simply didn't exist any more. Neither, frankly, did the army. They were more of a mobocracy now than an army. He had the head counts, after being promoted to Lieutenant of the Corps, since so many above him had died. The titles were still murky, but command of the host had now been split in a triumvirate between the Night Elf, Barak Demonlasher, the Stormwind Commander, Marcus Jonathan, and the Blood Elf, Dethal.

Of the twenty five thousand that began the final battle on Northrend, little more than two thousand were able to walk. Those that could not walk were carried in stretchers.

"Defeat, damned defeat…" he muttered, gazing out across the pristine skies.

"I don' think so laddie" a heavily accented voice behind him spoke up. "We should them Scourge boyos good…real good" Belgarlan said with a smirk. "As I've heard, we weakened em' right up, they ain't even able to chase us now"

"Maybe…the ages will decide good Dwarf" Genn replied. "As for now…we're going home"

Across the field that had carried their battle four weeks ago, the grand fleet lay in wait to take them back home, across a glittering sea.

(And so it ends, the final true chapter of War of the Ruins. Ladies and Gentlemen, it has been a pleasure writing for you all. I'm eternally thankful for the good reviews, the flames, all of it. This is the pinnacle of my writing, and it shall serve well as I continue my fanfics and stories. As for now, I am writing my own recounting of the Third War in Warcraft: The Third War, where I shall illustrate the events of the Third War from the eyes of many of the heroes, villains, and some unknowns as well. Regarding the defeat of Alaric against Arthas, when I began the writing of this story it was before World of Warcraft came out, and I wasn't sure of the lore aspects, and so I had to restrict myself. Sorry guys, I wanted to kill Arthas too . But on the other hand, I've left the story off with a cliffhanger to maybe one day continue during or after the storyline of World of Warcraft. There's still a short epilogue I'm going to add to this before it's all truly done where I shall again thank all of you, to sum up what exactly the War of the Ruins did, and the various events that took place over the course of the story. I shall see you all in the future, and once again, thank you all for the wonderful time and journey we've had through this story)


	26. Epilogue: Fateful Returns

Epilogue:

Elwynn Forest, Kingdom of Azeroth

Four months had passed since the final battle in Northrend. He, Anduin Praeton had assumed full control over the remnants of the army that had marched upon the frozen planes, and had managed to evacuate as many survivors as he could. He had no doubt now that the war was over.

Leaving a guard across the southern realms of Lordaeron, the new High General, still a rank below Grand Marshal, had fortified the south as much as he could, setting up a force able to repel any attacks that the Scourge might make, though it was unlikely that they would be able to counter for a very long time.

Though the war had ended, Praeton still felt that it had left its profound impacts upon the earth, the weakening of the Scourge, the potential of the Alliance's power, and far more facts and equations that would effect it later.

Now here they were, the last of the Stormwind regiments that had been too decimated or fought out to stay on guard in the Hillsbrad Foothills, Arathi Highlands, the newly acquired strongholds in Silverpine returning to their homes.

Dethal had taken the detachment of Elves and left the fleet as they sailed precariously back to Alliance territory and returned to Quel'thalas, of which most of the Blood Elves that had participated in the war stayed in. He seemed changed by the face of the war, more bitter and angry towards the Alliance that could not forever rid the Scourge. Slowly the messengers from Quel'thalas began to fade, and stopped coming at all. Whether they were taken by the Undead or severed themselves from the Alliance Praeton knew not.

As the sun peeked through the tall branches of Elwynn, Praeton felt warmth he hadn't known in many years. It had been long since he had been home, and his last stop had only been a token visit to the King, where he had been brutally lectured.

"Sire, Stormwind lies another league away. We should be able to see her walls through the trees soon enough!" his cartographer cried out, tears welling in his eyes.

"Indeed…we have made it back, but yet another damned loss. Another opportunity lost, another war grinding so many young men and women into dust" his de facto second in command muttered.

"No. This war didn't require full victory" Anduin said slowly, first to himself, then to the men in the column that followed him. "We pushed the Scourge back. We retook many lands for Lordaeron, and the Elves. We made safe the homes of many thousands that clung to fear for years. The Scourge has been greatly wounded, and has been humbled. Nobody won this war, except decisively us. The world will now change. It is a time of peace now. We have made that peace, for it will be long before the Scourge can act again. Rejoice in your justice, and bathe in the sun of freedom once more men of Stormwind, for we have indeed gained liberty through this war, lest the Scourge overpower us within the next few years. This fight is over"

The ragged men looked up to him, eyes confident in his words. And so they set on, the road to Stormwind now paved and shortening. Soon, they would see their beloved city again, and rest in the comfort of their beds.

As the company went out from under the cover of the trees, they beheld the gleaming white citadel of Stormwind Keep rising in the distance, and the massive city gates before them. It was glory incarnate. The golden sun threw down its rays upon the marble slabs, flickering off the shined cannon and the armor of the City Guard upon the walls.

As they came near the city, Praeton realized that there was another great column exiting from the city gates. As the two passed, Anduin noticed a great determination on the faces of the crimson plated warriors. When they're regiments neared the battered Stormwind soldiers, they cheered them on, "Huzzah!" they would cry.

Anduin instructed for the remaining soldiers to continue into the city and make meet their hero's welcome in the courtyard. After his orders had gone out, he sought out the commander of the column which was now going by, a long red snake bearing the marks of Lordaeron.

Finding one sergeant, he implied "Ho there, Sergeant!"

The man looked stunned that of all the men in the column he had been picked. "Sire! The great Anduin Praeton! Your name is worthy in the halls of the king beside those of Lothar's and Uther the Lightbringer!" his red chained gauntlet pointed to the interior of the gates, where stood the 5 great statues of Alleria Windrunner, Danath Trollbane, Kurdan the Aeire Dwarf, Khadgar, and Lord General Turalyon. The five celebrated heroes whom had given the ultimate sacrifice to save Azeroth from destruction when the orcish world of Draenor began to break up, a fate which would have followed into this earth and rend it to pieces.

Praeton smirked, thinking upon the journey of the last few months. "What is this? Is the Kingdom sending more men to reinforce my garrisons in Hillsbrad? Are you Stromgardian troops? You certainly don't look it, and your accent is too southern to be one of those mountainous warriors"

"No sire!" the sergeant remarked excitedly "We depart the Kingdom on our own will, to fight in the north! To regain Lordaeron in the name of King Terenas and make it a golden place again! We are the _Scarlet Crusade_. Our order was founded by none other than the Ashbringer himself, and we now join in with our brothers from across the lands"

"…Crusade?" Anduin remarked, oblivious. "Very well, carry on"

The man saluted, and rejoined his men. Anduin looked to the painfully blue skies. Indeed, in the hearts of men and all creatures, there still lies the burning desire to correct the wrongs of the world and make it a place of beauty and peace once more. With that, Anduin took his steps into the central plaza, beneath the statues of the great heroes of the Alliance.

Bonus Profile: The War of the Ruins; It's Causes and Effects

As of July, 618, the War of the Ruins came to an end. The six month effort was lead by Alaric Faltron'Quel, first and last Elven Grand Marshal. The kingdoms of men raised nearly one hundred thousand men for the offensive efforts into Lordaeron, with several thousand more elves and dwarves included in the campaign. Under Alaric Faltron'Quel, the forces of the Alliance were reformed into 'Army Corps', as such a large force would require a different type of management than the smaller and more mobile armies of the Second War. In the end, the campaign had covered over a thousand leagues of ground, stretching from the capital of Stromgarde, Strom, through Tarren Mill, Silverpine Forest, the Tirisfal Glades, the Capitol of Lordearon, the Plaguelands, Quel'thalas, and the long march across the frozen plains of Northrend.

When the army set out, it marshaled nearly ninety thousand soldiers, knights, wizards, priests, and more for the offensive course. By the end however, just over thirty thousand remained in the force. This was due to desertions (a very small faction), wounded (36,389), and dead or missing (23,611). The forces that managed to escape from Northrend were met up with the remnants of Anduin Praeton's army, which had successfully held off the Night elf charge for hours before pulling back.

The two forces marched to safer territory in southern Lordaeron, where they took up garrison duties on far flung outposts. The city of Dalaran had been permanently retaken, and was no longer a battlefield. The remaining wizards of the Kirin Tor took up residence in the ruined and dangerous city, and began to rebuild. Alterac was cleared of the Scourge, but a sinister organization known as the Syndicate soon came to power and held sway over the remnant populace in the south. In Alterac Valley, a major stronghold of orcish power was discovered soon after, and Anduin Praeton ordered several divisions of soldiers to combat the Frostwolf Clan. The conflict continues to this day.

The Scourge, severly weakened in continental Lordaeron, withdrew many of its forces from Silverpine Forest and the Tirisfal Glades, retreathing into the Plaguelands, where a certain Litch began to take form once again, his phylacteries not completely destroyed, making his residence in the dread citadel of Naxxramas. To this day, they have gathered the strength only once to attack south, of which was only a small foray into the Kingdoms of Khaz Modan, Stormwind, and into the city of Orgrimmar.

In Kalimdor, the embarresed Warchief quickly rebuilt the lost infrastructure in Orgrimmar and sent out envoys to the Alliance seeking true, lasting peace, which had been broken now twice. Theramore fared the same. Confused and bewildered by a force of seeming Alliance soldiers attacking their city, the people became wary of any ship crossing the ocean, and greatly increased their naval power.

Barak Demonlasher and his Night elven forces went their own way after the battle on Northrend, and returned to their home to rebuild and rest. It was not long before an Alliance messenger ship came to their docks upon Darkshore asking for a more solid league with them.

Alaric'Quel's presence held the Blood Elves to the Alliance but a little longer, and upon his disappearance the Blood Elves retreated into their sanctuary of Quel'thalas, which had been retaken in the war, blaming the humans, whom had been abusive and discriminative to them in the past, for the loss of the war and their leader. Recent reports have indicated that the Blood Elves have opened relations with the Horde, a strange and complete turnabout from their ideals and views only a few years earlier. Nothing much is known about this situation.

In the end, the War of the Ruins has set pivotal points in Azeroth's history, bringing the world closer together, and halting the Scourge's seemingly invincible advance. Upon the hellish world of Outland, Alaric'Quel searches for the truth that Prince Kael'thas promised his people shortly before he abandoned them. What he finds astounds and horrifies him. Disgusted with what Kael'thas has become, he flees Kael'thas's base in the Tempest keep to find several familiar faces which had long thought been dead in the Expedition into Draenor, quite alive and fighting for survival upon the surface of this alien world.

In this time, the power of the individual is greatly increased, and forays into the world of Azeroth are made by adventurers, who discover ancient plots, unbelievable lore, and venture into the unknown, ever wary of the Scourge and Burning Legion, both of which have become a secondary threat in due to both Wars of recent years.

(Well guys, I had intended to write this Epilogue a loooong time ago, but I never really did get around to it. Sadly, this adventure is at its end, and I'll miss it. Thank you so much for all your reviews, especially those of my good friend High Elven Swordsman. The reviews have always really helped and made me feel more motivated to continue the story, and even enticed me to finally finish this epilogue! Words cannot thank ye for the words of input, except that I'll hope to see you again in the future! I do plan on continuing the story of Alaric'Quel sometime in the future, though not just yet. I'll let his adventures hang in the air for a little while, while I write my chronicle of the Third War (which will include some cameos!), and several other stories. Bienvenido S. Canonizado, your life story has inspired me as well, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart for your review and support.

Well guys, that's it for War of the Ruins, over a year in the making. I'll see you all soon though! Make sure to keep up with my work, and I'll check out yours too! Good luck, have fun, and make me proud!)


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